Eyes Wide Open
by Stealth Dragon
Summary: Even in the darkest hour, one is never truly alone. John whump in a bad way, nasty team angst, and lots of friendship.
1. Part 1

**Eyes Wide Open**

by

Stealth Dragon

Rating – T

Disclaimer – It ain't mine, get over it.

Synopsis – Even in the darkest hour, one is never truly alone. John whump in a bad way, nasty team angst, and lots of friendship.

A/N: I can't believe I wrote this. Sheppard's going to hate me for this one. It may very well surpass all previous abuse I've laid on him, but the shock value was too good to pass up. I usually don't get this vicious (ha!) so please don't judge me for it. The concept was both fascinating and delightfully disturbing.

Though I wrote this some time ago, I still dedicate it to all the morbid Shep whumpers out there, especially all you sickos at the Gateworld Forum. I like lurking there for all the nifty pictures you people put up. They make me grin.

SGA

" You look like crap, sir."

John peeled sticky eyelids apart, and rolled his head over an uneven surface, looking right. No, wait, maybe it was left. No, had to be right, he was facing his writing hand. It was a little too dim to be distinguishing any details, yet Ford stood out as though a night-light were behind him. He was dressed mission ready with P-90 in hand, which struck John as odd what with his own self lying weapon-less, shirtless, empty stomach and freezing on an arctic cave floor. John lifted his rock heavy head on an unsteady neck and squinted at his former second.

John's brain asked 'what are you doing here? Did they catch you too?' His mouth rasped, " What the hell!"

Ford shrugged. " Know what you mean, sir. But I wouldn't waste energy over it. I'm just in your head."

Made sense. John set his head back on the floor and heaved out a breathy chuckle. " Then I'm..."

" Delirious sir? Oh yeah. Big time. Your body's pretty much starting to cannibalize itself and I don't think your brain's particularly happy about it. Then there's that stuff they just gave you. I think you're right, it's supposed to render you compliant, not kill you."

John closed his eyes and groaned. " Goody." He lifted a quaking hand with the intent of bringing it to his face to rub his eyes. He got as far as his chest before it dropped and slid down his discernible ribcage back to the floor.

" What happened, sir?"

John took a deep breath and sighed. He stared at the thick black hiding the ceiling except for the small illuminated section just above the cell door. If he stared hard enough and long enough, he would start to see things, vague shapes at first that organized themselves in his mind to become cats or dogs or faces. But it was a trivial way to pass the time now that he had an honest to goodness genuine hallucination to talk to.

His brain didn't want to cooperate. The fine misty haze was pleasant to loll in, making the gnawing cold in the pit of his shriveled stomach a passing annoyance – like an itch. John blinked several times and forced his mind to slap itself awake enough to recall.

It was the story of his Pegasus Galaxy life. They came, they talked, they traded, they were attacked. Except there was a little extra something to this mission that actually gave it more intrigue. This time around, there had been no village of unhappies or Genii thugs waiting in the shrubs. No wraith either. The Galathaans had been a nice bunch – John would grant them that much. They'd been friendly about trying to kick John and team out of the village. Trade had gone well – fast – ending with a 'get thee hence, hines, you really shouldn't be here' closer to it all. John had caught on even before then. Frightened looks said it all. Today had not been a good day for new arrivals, and especially to form alliance treaties. The Galathaans may not have been technically savvy (rifles and electric lights were as far as techno went) but they were good farmers and had a plant that really did the trick of curing what ails ya. They'd hesitated when John talked of an alliance, and that's when the rush turned into a frantic dash to get the Lantean's out – fast.

Too little too late, obviously. It was while they were heading out that Gale, the town leader, had whispered a nasty tale into Sheppard's ear concerning a group who called themselves the Free Regiment. Freedom fighters John's ass. Very Talibaan/ Iraqi terrorist in John's mind. They wanted things run a certain way, and since they weren't getting their way, whined and cried about it by getting exceedingly brutal. They were best known for midnight kidnappings of government officials and those they deemed untrustworthy; starving them, beating them, and stringing them up to die.

Idiots, freakin' idiots. Worlds had enough to handle with the wraith, and these little wraith morsels were having a pissing contest just because their leader couldn't play dictator. The head of this supposed organization had been a former official who thought declaring Marshall Law would solve all their problems. The guy sounded like Hitler and Bin Laden rolled into one.

Ironically enough, he probably would have gotten into power if the wraith hadn't popped up, nearly sucking the planet dry. It had been unforeseen, therefore with no time to prepare, and Furl or Feral or whatever the hell his name was had lost a crap load of status – from Hitler to Bin Laden, probably even less than that. Now he was just a cold blooded bully with an amoral streak a mile wide.

And here John was, in the man's hell-hole domain, when the freedom freaks had popped out of nowhere, guns blazing, separating the team. While providing fire for his team and escorts to get away, John was clocked over the head, and woke up weaponless, shirtless, and freezing on an arctic floor. The empty stomach followed not long after. They'd yet to feed him a thing, just keep him alive with small cups of stale water.

" Wow, that's rough sir."

John looked back at Ford. The young Lieutenant was looking genuinely sorry, which proved once and for all that he was indeed only in John's head. The new and not so improved Ford would be more concerned over his slowly depleting enzyme collection.

John closed his eyes. " Tell me about it." Then reopened them. " You wouldn't happen to know..."

" What they have planned for you? Sorry sir. Like I said, I'm only in your head. Maybe they just like starving people."

John smiled ruefully. " Or they like to pick on the little guy. Make 'em weak, easier to beat and break. My dearly despised guard looked like he wanted to have some fun with me. Probably almost time. His grin keeps getting bigger." Sheppard knew he should probably be more scared, but the haze was too much fun to interrupt concerning the inevitable.

" So what brings you into my mind, Lieutenant? Are you in my head, or haunting me?" He gave Ford a quizzical look. " Are you dead?"

Ford pursed his lips thoughtfully. " Can't say, sir. I only know what you know."

" And I know crap," John moaned.

Ford smiled that 'innocent kid' smile of his. " You know more than even you realize, sir."

Something clanked, echoing sharp so that Sheppard winced. Voices floated to him, a string of murmurs interspersed with ringing footfalls. Keys rattled on a ring, being shoved into a lock that clunked. The door moaned inward and pale light spilled over John, blinding him. He lifted a shaking head on a shaking neck, plus his shaking hand to shield assaulted retina. The figures entering were shadows to him, faceless and nameless, not that he cared. They surrounded him, looking down at him, just staring.

" Looks like he's ready," someone simpered. The forms descended on him like vultures to grab him, lift him, and carry him from his cell. With his head hanging from his useless neck, he saw an upside down Ford watching sorrowfully.

" See you in a minute, sir."

SGA

Rodney rubbed his face along a sand-paper jaw that worked well as a way to scratch the palm of his hand. His eyes darted back and forth between the LSD and the heat signature detector displayed before him as per the mental wishes of Stackhouse piloting the Jumper cloaked and low over the trees. Both detection units could reach depths that would have allowed them to find live lava flows and mole people, but there was a little matter of magnetic and metallic interference to consider. Gale had said the Free Regiment liked to bunk deep below ground. The Galathaans may have been nineteen hundreds in their technology, but they weren't naïve about what it was capable of. Plus this had been a once highly technical world, probably close to earth's current level, and they still retained much of their past history in writing, including scientific finds. So there was a good chance the FR were hiding in a spot the detectors were going to have a hell of a time getting through to.

It was a probability Rodney didn't give a damn about. Everybody screwed up eventually, and chances were there were energy signatures to be found, or groups milling about outside the caves.

Just because Rodney was a pessimist didn't mean he gave up hope.

" Come on," McKay urged. " Show yourselves."

" Anything yet?" Teyla asked, coming up from behind to lean with hands against the head rest of the seat.

" Well, if we were in the mood to go hunting, there are a couple of creatures shaped like boar. But other than that, no. Nothing remotely human in form." He turned and leaned back some to get Gale in sight. " Are you sure they like to hang out at these ruins you keep talking about?"

Gale, tall, lean, with stringy blond hair and a sharp face, nodded. " Yes. It is always where we find the bodies."

McKay screwed his mouth into a sneer. " _Don't_ say bodies _please!_ And just because this is where they like to... do – what they do... doesn't mean they're going to be nearby."

" It'd be more convenient for them if they were," Ronon interjected with his usual, almost flawless logic.

Rodney exhaled sharply through his nose. " True, but since it's also such a known location, there'd be too much risk in someone stumbling on their hideout."

" They'd just kill 'em," Ronon countered.

Rodney gritted his teeth to keep from retorting. Ronon's straight forward comments were irritating in that the man always had a point. Rodney had always deemed himself the king of straightforward, and didn't like that he'd been so surreptitiously knocked from the thrown. Not that that had been Ronon's intent, it just felt that way.

Rodney looked at his watch. It may not have been in sync with the hours of this planet, but after being on this world for a week and three days, he'd figured out a workable system. It was getting late, the light would soon fade, the day would be over, and then they would have two, maybe three days left to find Sheppard anywhere but in the ruins. Because once in the ruins...

He turned back to the detectors and watched. Teyla's hand touched him lightly on the shoulder.

" We will find him," she assured.

Sarcasm wanted to worm it's way onto his tongue, but he swallowed it back. " Yeah, yeah, we'll find him." He let the sarcasm have him instead.

SGA

John was floating, and he found it rather pleasant. The giggling spilling from his throat, however, wasn't so pleasant. It was making him nervous, actually, but he couldn't quite help the way it sounded. He wanted to laugh because floating was fun. He just wished he sounded a little more sane about it.

The giggling stopped when the floating became falling, and he landed painfully on a cold, hard, uneven surface. He rolled from his side to his back with a grimace and groan.

" Hey," he protested, and got kicked hard in the side for it.

" Shut up."

John didn't cry out, but had no intentions of giggling ever again. Wherever he was, it was dim, dusky, like late afternoon. Except that he wasn't outside, and neither was he in the cell. This cave was bigger with a high ceiling and wide walls. That was all he could distinguish as his vision wasn't up to par, going in and out of focus, and veiling everything in a thin mist.

" You ready doc?" Someone called.

" Yes," came the nervous, quivering reply. " B-bring him in."

John was lifted, and he was floating again, but the slap-happy giggles were gone. Still, it was nice to be floating, so he let himself smile.

Then he was set on something smooth, cold, and wonderfully flat. Hands moved over him and turned him to be lying chest down. His arms were pulled forward, stretching him. He jerked weakly in alarm at a sensation so familiar it made him want to vomit – leather cinched around his wrists and bared ankles, pinching, pulling, stifling proper circulation.

" Oh hell no," he wanted to growl, but it came out as a whimper. He looked up, past the shadow people, to Ford standing before him, looking a little too apologetic.

" You may not want to be conscious for this sir," he said.

John tilted his head and narrowed his eyes dangerously. " And how am I supposed to accomplish that, Ford?"

A stranger's voice snapped. " Who's he talking to?"

" Delirious," came the reply, and a hard smack to the side of John's head. " Shut up?"

John gritted his teeth. " Bite me."

Another slap, this time getting stars to erupt and die within his foggy vision.

" That the best you got?" John slurred.

" Stifle it, Lantean!"

John chuckled. " Come on, show me what you got."

Another slap, this one hard enough to snap his head to the side. The stars exploded as one, but his awareness wasn't clinging to him as hard.

" Probably good enough, sir," said Ford. " Just... close your eyes. And whatever you do, don't open them."

John's head was too happily swimming to argue. He let his eyes slide closed and the air sigh from his lungs.

SGA

Ronon circled the fire, a man on the prowl with no where to prowl. He swung his weapon upward to rest on his shoulder, let it fall, and swung it up again. The fire popped and sparked, clawing the evening air loud with the chirp of nocturnal insects and animals. With each go around the fire, Ronon lifted his head to the brightly lit interior of the puddle jumper where McKay, Stackhouse, Lorne, three other marines, and Gale were gathered like animals at a carcass, the carcass being a map divided into quadrants.

The other two puddle jumpers were cloaked for false appearances, in case the Freedom Regiment decided to pop in. They might not have been so endowed with technology, but that didn't mean the back-woods scum wouldn't have ways of disabling a jumper.

" Ronon, please sit," Teyla said from the log she sat on.

" Been sitting," Ronon replied. " Sick of it."

Teyla was sick of it too, just adept at hiding it. Not too adept, though. Her hands wouldn't keep still, fidgeting with her own fingers, her weapon, vest, pockets, hair. She didn't want to be sitting as much as Ronon. She wanted to be moving, searching on foot, tracking and hunting. That's how it needed to be done.

Except they had already tried, and with time not on their side, had to find quicker means.

They were trying, Ronon new they were. Even now Rodney looked ready to keel over – pale, shadow-eyed, and wired on too much coffee, candy bars and MREs. Ronon gave it one more day before he found the scientist passed out on the jumper floor.

Ronon wasn't putting the man down. If anything, he was impressed. A week trudging, searching, hoping, and finding nothing, and the physicist had yet to complain about it – the searching, not everything else. Mostly, he preoccupied his verbal efforts to bad mouthing the Ancients for not having something more useful, like a portable DNA detector that could draw them a straight line to Sheppard, or something like that. Ronon hadn't been quite sure what McKay was going on about until Lorne explained it.

Ronon had never seen McKay so determined to find Sheppard. He hadn't even bad mouthed the Colonel once the entire time, as though doing so would hasten what McKay referred to as 'dooms-day'.

They had two days, if even that, to find Sheppard.

Ronon stopped, and turned his head to look over the fire at Teyla.

Two days.

" Do you think..." Ronon dropped his eyes to the fire with the words lodging in his throat. He couldn't say what was on his mind, since what was on his mind was making him shudder with fury. When he returned his gaze to Teyla, he caught the amber flash of firelight off of tears tracing paths through the grime down her cheek.

Somewhere - maybe close by, maybe far away, but still on this world, as they stood there, saying nothing but sharing one thought - Sheppard was being tortured.

Ronon resumed his prowl, altering his thoughts from the blood of a friend, to the blood of an enemy pouring hot over his hands.

SGA

_Welcome to the wonderful world of nothing!_

It wasn't completely empty. John could still see Ford. The young man seemed quite determined not to make eye-contact with the Lt. Colonel. John assumed it to having something to do with the excruciating pain focused – it seemed – on his shoulder blade, but moving. Heralding it had been the rather uncomfortable sensation of something cold and sharp trailing down his spine that made his skin prickle, and laughter in his ear that made his hammering heart shrink.

Now it was pain, pain, pain.

_Gee, hadn't seen that coming._ John would have laughed, but the pain didn't let him. He promised himself a good chuckle later.

John seethed through gritted teeth as he lay with arched back on the floor of this mental nothing. He'd done a quick glance at himself, saw himself mission ready, like Ford, minus one P-90 or any weapon for that matter. He'd gone through the vest, finding more nothing. Nothing really was his cup of tea today, it seemed. Too bad the pain couldn't take a hint and be nothing.

" Ford," he coughed out with saliva flying. " You call this being knocked out?"

Ford grimaced apologetically. " Give it time, sir. Pain should get you sinking a little deeper soon enough."

The pain moved closer to his spine. John clenched his fist and writhed despite the pain going with him where ever he moved. " What the hell are they doing to me!"

" You really don't want to know, sir. Better you just keep your eyes closed."

John finally released the promised chuckle, sounding weak and pathetic. " A Lieutenant telling a Colonel what to do. That's just _peachy,_" he ground out, and uttered a broken cry of pain and alarm when the sharp object trying to burrow it's way in hit bone, grating and gouging. " B-b-but... I'll take your word for it."

" Smart man." Colonel Sumner stepped from an unseen door in the black nothing to stand beside Ford.

The pain took a few steps back, allowing Sheppard enough thought to start laughing bitterly, wavering on a half-sob.

" Oh isn't this just special. The old gang getting together again. What's up, Colonel? Here to start the guilt fest? I'm assuming that's what this is. Rip Sheppard a mental new one since bad dreams don't cut it. You gonna show me what I'm missing? Maybe I should just open my eyes and get it over with. What is this Ford?"

Ford shrugged one shoulder. " Your head, sir. Not mine."

Sumner came forward and began circling Sheppard – very cat and invalid mouse like. Except John could have sworn Sumner's expression more thoughtful than predatory. Hell could freeze over and the wraith go vegetarian before that man would pity Sheppard.

Hope for the galaxy yet, then, because Sumner was showing no pleasure in John's current state.

" You're still on that, _Lt. Colonel_?" He emphasized John's rank, as though it held far more meaning that just being a step up from Major.

The pain, though dulled enough to be tolerable, was still at the forefront of John's awareness. It skipped over his spine, continuing on to the next shoulder blade.

" Killing my CO isn't something I'm going to be forgetting any time soon."

Sumner smiled, actually smiled, but it was brief and he was immediately back to his usual frown. " No. No one expects you to forget it."

" Dreams won't let me."

When behind Sheppard, Sumner stepped over him, turned, and crouched before the prone Colonel. " That's a state of mind, Lt. Colonel Sheppard. No one makes you dream."

John lifted his head, and narrowed his eyes. " Then what are you doing here?"

Sumner leaned in close. " Good question. It's your head, Colonel. And it's not my fault if I'm haunting it." He moved away, returning personal space to Sheppard. " I can't tell you why I'm here. I will say this much, though. I'd listen to the Lieutenant. Keep your eyes closed. And don't make me order you." He smirked, and it was freaking Sheppard out. " I'm dead. Ultimate retirement. So I'm not really in the mood to give orders."

Sumner straightened to take steps back until he was standing next to Ford.

The pain was crawling along Sheppard's back, row on row, always skipping over his spine like jumping a ravine of bone. The pain was a heated sting that throbbed with his heartbeat. The flesh felt wet, a heated wet, smothering him and tracing warm down his flanks. It was almost involuntary when he reached back through the collar of his jacket and shirt, except that he wasn't sure what it was he was looking for. He had an idea, say for that ideas didn't produce results, and when he brought his hand to his face he found it clean.

" It really is better for you not to know," Sumner said.

" What you don't know can't make it worse," Ford added.

John dropped his head back to the floor, and since floors tended to be naturally hard, his imagination filled in the blanks to make him wince. " How much worse can it get?" He shivered.

" You could be vomiting," Ford said. " Which is exactly what you'll end up doing if you open your eyes."

The pain was a constant until it finally reached the small of his back, then it was done. John relaxed, mentally and physically, more mentally since his muscles remained clenched against his will. Something was happening, a change he was aware of only through touch. The tightness around his wrists and ankles loosened, and he felt hands on his arms, shoulders, and legs. Movement without his permission, and pressure at his back that made the sting become fire that scorched him from the outside to the inside. He clenched his teeth hard enough to bite through steel if it had been placed in his mouth. He seethed, faster and faster to the jackhammering piece of meat that was his heart. He arched his back in the physical world that eased the burn down to uncomfortable, pulsating heat. The pressure returned to his wrist and ankles. He wanted so bad to writhe in the physical, because the mental wasn't doing a damn thing. He arched his spine and his neck, looking at Ford and Sumner, begging through his eyes, and - pride be screwed – his voice.

" What are they doing? What's happening?"

Ford was sad, painfully sad, on the verge of tears. Sumner simply looked away.

" Nothing you can do anything about," said Sumner.

" Just hang on, sir," said Ford. " I think this is gonna be bad."

John waited, tensing tight enough for his limbs to pull themselves apart, and breathing too fast for his blood to keep up. Or maybe it was his lungs unable to keep up with his heart. He couldn't tell, and didn't care. All he knew was he wasn't getting enough air. He was suffocating.

Then came his old pal pain, sharp and forceful like one of Beckett's injections, except it was exploding from his left eye.

John's mental eye fluttered while the physical one refused to open. " What the hell!" John gasped, and his hand shot to the eye, mental image trying to convey to his real arm that wouldn't move because – preoccupied as he was – he'd forgotten it to be strapped down.

The pain was rhythmic, over and over, worse with each stab.

" What the freakin' hell!" John pressed the heel of his hand into his eye. " What are they doing to me!" He arched, writhed, squirmed like a worm being dissected. Then he screamed, in his head and out loud until his throat was rubbed raw and he knew it had to be bleeding. When his lungs emptied, he pulled in air enough for the next round that morphed into an agonized sob.

" Stop! Please stoooooop! Make it stoooop!"

" Shhhhhh... It's all right."

John knew that voice. It cut through to him like a rock through glass, and he rolled his pain-free eye up to the oval face framed by midnight black hair spilling passed slender shoulders. John felt, distantly like a memory more than real touch, long fingers brushing through his hair, and a lap beneath his head. Sad green eyes stared down at him, flooded with love and moisture. He wished to hell that he was seven again, and just now waking up from a bad dream.

John wanted to laugh and cry, but the agony didn't let him do either. Still, though he wasn't exactly sure how, he managed a tremulous smile.

" H-h-h-hey mom." He choked on his own breath when the pain jumped across his face to his other eye. He screamed again.

" Shhhh. It's all right baby. It's all right. Just listen to my voice and you'll be all right."

John heaved in breaths and pooled his focus onto the hand running through his hair, and the voice whispering sweetly to him. Laughter became a need, like water for a thirsty man and food for a starving man. Insane, pathetic laughter against an insane, inexplicable situation. His mother was exactly how he remembered her, still young and always with a kind look in her eyes, before she died and his world went shooting off into hell. She'd been a young mother, pregnant at seventeen and forced to grow up fast because of it. Had she regretted it? Young John had never known, being blissfully unaware of the truth as he was. Biological daddy wasn't present, only step-dad when his mom finally married at age twenty. He was step-dad now, but had been nothing but dad before the truth shoved its ugly head through the door. He'd been a good father as far as John was concerned, a real father, a present father. Then he died in war, mom died in a car wreck, and real dad was shoved back into John's life because the courts were so hell-bent on sticking him with his biological father who'd taken his sweet time on deciding he wanted John in his life after all.

Lucky for John, biological dad hadn't had a good track record. Drinking, drugs, and an inability to hold down a job pretty much saved John from suffering having to live with a stranger. Instead, custody was awarded to step-dad's brother, and John got to keep the name Sheppard. He'd almost become an Anderson. Real dad had been pissed – more than likely had also been high during the court appearance – and screamed at John for not wanting to be with him. He told him the truth, that John was an accident, never intended, never wanted, shouldn't have been born, and called his mother a whore. John had been ten at the time.

Now that had hurt. Depression had been inevitable, lasting until John's ever honest and always wise uncle assured him that whatever the situation that brought John into the world, his mother had loved him. John couldn't deny it, because the memories of mom were of a woman that could have been June Cleaver's clone. For a woman who had supposedly not wanted kids, she certainly hadn't acted like it.

" I did want you, John," his mom said. Her fingers were warm, like he always remembered, as they stroked his head.

The pain in his eyes jumped to his mouth, and his hands jumped with it. He pressed his hands hard, which stifled the mental scream though the physical scream vibrated his skull.

His mother kissed his forehead, and pressed her cheek against it, still stroking away. " Easy, John, easy. It'll be all right. Over soon. It'll be over soon. You'll be all right. It'll be over soon."

_All right? How can I be all right? Come out of this all right? What they're doing to me can't be healthy. What are they doing to me, gouging my eyes out, ripping out my tongue? Except my tongue isn't hurting, just the outside of my mouth. What the hell are they doing to me!_

" You don't want to know, baby. You really don't."

_Then how the hell am I supposed to come out of this all right?_

" That depends on you, Colonel," Sumner said. John rolled his eyes to him. The problem with hallucinations was that all thought wasn't private anymore. In John's case, it was a helpful commodity seeing as how he couldn't use his mouth at the moment.

_What do you mean?_

Ford was the one to answer. " How quick you want this to end, sir. It's the only control you got, really."

_What the hell are you talking about!_

" You'll know soon enough," Sumner said.

Something was happening. The pressure on his limbs was taken away, and his body was lifted.

_Yay, floating!_ He felt almost giddy from the weightless sensation, and even in the nothing his head swam and spun. _Now what? _Pain clung to him like clothes, unbearable and nauseating. He wasn't opposed to the floating though, but like most good things, it didn't last. He was lowered until his bare feet touched cold floor and his hands were raised above his head. Rough, thick cords were cinched around his wrists, and then the hands supporting his form against gravity released him. His legs gave without a fight, his body dropped and his arms pulled.

And then came pain again. It exploded out from his back, then his chest, his face – several times – ribs, hips, legs. Laughter cackled in his ears to rattle about his head. He clenched his jaw, groaned out, growled, whimpered, and sobbed. It hurt too damn much to put up with it for dignity's sake.

His mother spoke, whispering, stroking and he tried to focus on that. Yet the bursting pain kept catching him off guard and yanking him back. It was relentless for attention, like a spoiled brat breaking everything and screaming.

_How the hell am I supposed to get out of this all right!_

" By making a choice."

A whole new voice this time around. John tilted his head down until his chin touched his chest. Standing at his feet all blindingly angel bright was Teer.

Tears ran hot down John's face. _A choice. What choice?_

" Wait, John. Just wait."

He doubted he could, wanted to scream that he couldn't. Then like a switch being flipped, the pain stopped, and he jolted from the sudden lack of it.

" What's going on?" he yelped, swallowing.

" You are completely unconscious, John," Teer explained. " But it will not last. I must explain quickly."

John nodded numbly. Odd to be numb in his own head. " Okay. Hey Teer," he said, and smiled drunkenly. " Meet my mom."

Teer nodded to the memory image. " We have met. Listen to me, John, because we don't have much time. You need to make a choice while your mind is clear enough to do so, before the pain returns."

It took effort, but John pushed himself to his feet and straightened on quaking legs. Happy as he should have been to see Teer, he was more afraid than jubilant. The look on her face, sorrowful and even a little strained, wasn't making him feel too up toward any form of happiness. He eyed Teer warily.

" What choice?"

Teer looked down at her clasped hands. " This can end, John." She said. " This pain, torment... You can will it to end. And I can help you to do so. All you have to do is..."

John took a step back, and narrowed his eyes to slits. " Come with you."

Teer's gaze shot up to lock with his. " Yes."

" To... die..." It finally hit John, and he laughed. Hysterical, wavering, mingled with a sob laughter that made his mental body shake and more tears burn his face. " This is what it's all about." He spread his arms wide to either side of himself, and took another step back. " All this. Ford, Sumner, my mom... You. It's why you're all here. To get me to do the whole head toward the light thing. Guilt trips and me missing mom, is that how you're doing it? By getting me to wish I was dead!"

Ford shook his head stoically. " I don't know why I'm here, sir."

" Do you want to die?" Sumner asked.

" Hell no!" John shouted, and flinched at the conviction of his own words. McKay would have loved this. For all John's self-sacrificing tendencies that had a way of pissing off his team, he had no real desire to die. Sure, he was prepared for the eventuality, but it scared the hell out of him all the same. He preferred being alive, he just had a problem of showing it.

He was also realistic. The tension leaked from him, and his shoulders sagged. " But I don't have much of a choice in the matter, right? Can't, not with what they're doing to me."

" I can make the transition simple for you," Teer said. " Painless. But it is your choice."

John snorted. " Choice? What choice? Didn't I just say I don't have much choice in the matter?"

" Actually, sir," Ford said. " You do."

John turned on him. " What, die a horrible death or take the quick way out? What the hell kind of choice is that!" He shook his head vehemently. " No, I don't buy that. There's gotta be a chance. My team... My team could find me before... you know... They could come. Nick of time thing, we're always pulling those off," he finished with a nervous laugh.

" Do you really believe your team will make it in time?" said Sumner

John's body ached, and not in a tolerable way. He started to pace, and shot a glare at Sumner. " I know they'll try."

" How do you know they're even looking for you?" Sumner challenged.

John, still pacing, stabbed a rigid, shaking finger at him. " Because they are! I know them. I know they're looking, I know they're trying... I know!" John grimaced and he fell to his knees when the pain raged through him in one massive onslaught for attention. He gasped, doubling over, hugging his chest and holding an arm wrenched from the socket. And a fat lot of good it did him, because now he could feel nothing of his mental self.

And even through that, he did not want to die. Not like this, in this place, alone...

No, not really alone. His mother came to him, kneeling by him to take him in her arms and resume stroking his hair. Teer knelt before him and placed her hand on his shoulder.

" You are right, John. You do have that choice."

Inside and out, John was shaking. " So's Sumner," he slurred. " How do I know my team'll make it in time?"

Her hand moved from his shoulder to stroke his cheek. " You don't."

It was like a declaration of defeat. John lowered his gaze, and his head, closing the eyes of his mind.

" But you can try..." Teer said. " You can wait. That is your choice, John."

He hurt beyond sane comprehension. But seeing as how he had already lost all sanity a long time ago, it didn't really make a difference. Tears poured fast, and his chest jerked in quiet, agonized weeping. When he opened his eyes, he forced them up to meet with Teer's compassionate gaze.

" I'd..." he coughed, and something about it didn't feel right. Not his chest, but his mouth. " I'd like to wait. Just a little longer. Wait 'til I'm dead. Can we do that? Wait that long?"

Teer smiled sadly. " Yes John. We can wait."

John chuckled caustically. " Trust me. It won't be long..."

SGA

_Stupid son of a...! Those slimy bastards!_

McKay's word ringing true and appropriately in Teyla's head. She ran through underbrush, dodged debris, and dashed hot-headed and without second thought into every decrepit door and gaping wall hole. Shouts echoed distantly, coupled with the occasional repetitive pat of a P-90 or the single explosive bang of a rifle. They were on the hunt, and as McKay's infuriated words raged through her brain, a very Ronon feral sneer graced her lips. She wanted nothing more than blood as compensation for the blood she knew had been spilled from the body of her friend.

The FR had come sooner than later, a day early. Life signs and heat signs detectors didn't lie. Forms had popped up spread throughout the labyrinthine ruins – literally. Body's with strong heat signatures, body with weak, all over the place like insects crawling about a decaying corpse. McKay had a theory as to how they did it, involving underground passages and hidden trap doors, which would also explain how they eluded Galathaan authorities so easily.

Teyla had never wanted to hug the Ancestors more. Their technology had given the insects away, and the bugs couldn't scurry fast enough to escape.

To Teyla's growing annoyance, however, she had yet to run into any of them. Ronon seemed to be having a good time of it, though. Every few minutes his voice would rumble over the radio with a gruff " got another one." Cries of pain and terror resounded to her, along with cries of anguish.

Teyla had yet to run into any bodies. Tricky to find with an LSD, which made her stomach twist itself.

She got her slice of vendetta when a bullet ricocheted off the corner of a dilapidated stone wall that Teyla quickly ducked behind, only to twist back out and return fire. There was a yelp of alarm and silence. She plowed on, not even giving the body the courtesy of putting a face to it by looking at it. She was getting deeper to the heart of the ruins. Had to be with the fewer crumbling walls and greater number of doors. In the center was the largest of the structures, probably a temple since that's usually how it went. Life signs were everywhere, but not near enough to her position to act on. She made her way to the supposed-temple as a kind of goal, and the life signs moved further away.

It was only when she was within sight of the temple doors through the shrubs that a sign crept from the top of the LSD screen. It wasn't moving, probably lying in wait. Teyla crouched and kept within the shrubs, skirting the clearing leading to the door. When close enough, she darted out and pressed herself to the wall adjacent to the entrance. She craned her neck around and peered into the gloom. Momentary visual adjustment, and she could make out a corridor stretching into darkness. The dot on the LSD seemed somewhat to the right.

Teyla darted in and pressed her back to the next wall adjacent to the corridor. She clicked on the light to the P-90 and flashed the beam into the darkness. There was a room, just right where the corridor began. Another peek at the LSD showed her the life's further lack of movement. So she darted again, back to the wall, inching toward the door. The light went in first.

" Drop your weapon and you will not be harmed!" she called, voice echoing. No answer, and no return fire. But she wasn't hot-headed to the point of going in with weapon blazing. She craned her neck to peer into the light-less room. The light of her weapon danced over a body suspended by the wrists. It was officially safe to assume no danger here. She did a quick glance to the left and right, then slipped in to stand before the limp form.

Starting from the spiky dark hair that already had her gut clenching, she forced the light to travel down, illuminating a pale bare chest splashed in a multi-colored mess of bruises. She could outline his skeleton with her eyes. Stretched arms spread the ribs until even the sternum looked ready to rip through the skin, and the bruises just kept going to vanish beyond the waistband of the pants

It was the pants - the spiky hair and the BDUs together - that had Teyla dropping her gun and running to the Colonel. She groped along his neck until her fingers found the weak but present pulse, and her sigh of relief sounded more like a broken cry. She put her hands to his obscured face, gently patting his jaw and cheek.

" Colonel Sheppard," she pleaded. " Colonel, Sheppard, it is me, Teyla. Wake up, please wake up..."

She heard a moan, or thought she did, but the head remained hanging limp and motionless. Good enough. She needed to asses damage and wasn't going to do it in the dark. She reached down to yank the knife she kept hidden under her pant leg, and cut the ropes securing John to the ceiling. The Rotten ropes gave out fast, and Teyla dropped her knife clattering on the floor in surprise when John's body started to fall. She had him in a kind of semi-embrace beneath the arms, and quickly dragged him from the room toward the front entrance. She veered toward the wall just before the corridor and set John against it at the corner to hold him up.

In the light, the bruises formed an almost solid mass down his body. She gulped against an increasingly tightening throat while she felt down the visible ribs. A lot of breaks, even more cracks, probably his entire ribcage a shattered mess, but that was for Beckett to determine. She returned focus back to his sagging head, caressing his scalp with one hand, and cupping the side of his jaw, thick with stubble, using the other.

" John?" Her voice cracked when she spoke, and she coughed to clear it. " Please, John, wake up. Look at me. Please..." Nothing like catching the hint of green through slitted lids to open the dam and let sweet relief smother her.

" Please. It is Teyla. We found you. You will be all right now. Can you look at me? John?"

The head twitched, and the chest heaved when John sucked air through his nose. Teyla applied upward pressure to the jaw until the limp head started to ascend.

" John, I..." Bile shot like magma into Teyla's throat. " Oh! Oh, by the Ancestors, no! No, oh please no, no..."

No slitted eyes, no flash of green, and definitely no cocky comment. John's eyes and mouth had been sewn shut.

Another dam had busted, one that constricted Teyla's chest until she couldn't breathe, and sent rivers of salty tears down her face. John's sunken eyes were bruised dark like the hollow sockets of a skull, but the eyelids themselves were swollen and red. His mouth was barely discernible under the mass of stitches. Like the rest of him, his face was bloody and bruised artistic insanity.

Teyla couldn't breathe. " No... No, no, no, no..." She pulled John to her, one hand on the back of his head to guide it to her shoulder. She looked down, intent on burying her face into the bony shoulder, and gaped at his back shredded like meat with odd markings that had painted his back the singular color of dried, brown blood.

Teyla wept until her body convulsed, and she tightened her embrace around Sheppard until his backbone dug into her arm. Irrational fear warned her of the possibility of shattering an already broken body. Hysterical fear wouldn't allow her to let go on the off chance he could be taken from her. She loosened the hold enough to satisfy the irrational, but doubted she'd ever be able to let go.

SGA

Two life signs, getting closer, just beyond the brush. McKay was wheezing with the effort of running just to keep up with Ronon.

" Oh yeah..." McKay panted. " He doesn't... need... LSD... big... bad... hunter... that... he is... oh crap... this... sucks!"

Rodney was given reprieve when Ronon slowed on approach to the entrance. He slowed even more when an odd sound – like broken wailing – moaned from inside. Ronon darted to the wall and crept toward the entrance to peer in. His stance immediately melted, and he simply stepped around. And since it was always a good idea to follow the Satedan's lead in order to avoid pissing him off, McKay followed with less caution though still maintaining proper wariness.

Stepping inside the dusty excuse for a structure, he squinted against the gloom. Ronon was just standing there, staring down at what looked to be a huddled figure with – two heads? Rodney blinked and rubbed his eyes. Two figures. One Teyla by the hair and the vest. The other with familiar black hair sticking out all over the place. The face, however, wasn't quite so easy to recognize, and when Rodney's eyes adjusted enough to see why, he turned and bolted out of the place to go heaving breakfast, lunch and dinner from the past three days into the bushes.

When he finished, he wiped his mouth, dropped to his knees, then his hands, and heaved again. Every time he closed his eyes, Sheppard's face faded into his brain like a morbid screen saver.

Involuntarily mute, involuntarily blind. Rodney heaved again. He wiped his mouth with the back of a quaking hand and pushed himself up onto legs that might as well have been Jell-O. He stumbled back into the temple to see Ronon kneeling by Teyla, reaching out to her. When the big hand met the slender shoulder, Teyla flinched.

" No!" she cried, and sobbed harder. Rodney wanted to join her. That face, eyes and mouth sealed like sutured wounds, the horror of it had McKay's brain frozen. He wanted to take off on another round of retching, except that he had nothing left to expel. Nightmares didn't pack this much of a sickening punch.

" Teyla," Ronon said, snapping Rodney from his stupor. The big man's voice was low, gentle, kind and, Rodney could have sworn, wavering.

" Teyla, please. Let me help," he urged. Never had Rodney thought that he would live to see the day when Ronon conveyed pure sorrow. Even his face, his eyes, poured out pity that shouldn't have been possible for such a natural stoic.

Teyla shuddered with sobs then sucked in a liquid sounding breath. Her arms, inch by inch, loosened their hold on Sheppard. Ronon kept Sheppard upright by his skinny shoulders, and the big man's eyes seemed quite interested in something on Sheppard's back.

" H-how..." Teyla gasped. " How will we move him? You cannot carry him. It may further his injuries, cause more pain."

Ronon, sights still lingering on Sheppard's back, nodded assent. " The clearing's big enough for a jumper," he said. " If not, I'll make it big enough."

Feeling like a lost interloper, McKay forced his wobbling legs to move his body forward. Ronon carefully set Sheppard back into Teyla's embrace. The naked upper body was making McKay cold just to look at. He removed his vest and his jacket, and forced himself those last few steps to kneel beside his motionless friend. He reached out to place the jacket over his back, but paused to stare slack-jawed at the mess of blood and oddly shaped cuts lined up in neat rows across that back, with the spine acting as the divider like the spine of an actual book. He dropped the jacket over the mess, and Teyla adjusted it to cover Sheppard's shoulders. Rodney rose, feeling numbly satisfied at having done something. Keeping that in mind, he stumbled out of the temple, considering ways he could help Ronon out.

Reality wouldn't have his attempts at self-desensitization. Sheppard's face and Sheppard's back flashed into Rodney's mind, bringing him to his knees just in time to heave out the bile, having nothing else to puke, but needing to puke something.

SGA

TBC...

A/N: Yeah, yeah, my cruelty knows no bounds, yadda yadda. You should see the crap I put my original characters through.


	2. Part 2

A/N: My evil scheme has seen fruition. You have all been thoroughly disturbed. All in all this story's only three chapters, but they're long chapters, chalked full of angsty goodness. Yum.

Part Two

" Carson can fix him. He knows how. Just cut the stitches, open the mouth, the eyes... Sheppard'll be blinking and insulting me in no time. He'll be fine, just fine, totally fine, just as soon as we get him back." Dead twigs, leaves, and dirt crunched under McKay's booted feet, then scraped when he turned on his heels to pace the other way, gesturing dismissively in the air several times. " It's not that bad, can't be. Just stitches. It's not like they melted his skin together or something morbidly sick like that."

Rodney brought his hand to his mouth for a little nibble of his cuticle. Bad habits had their merits, since flailing his arms about was good only for furthering an already aggravated and empty stomach. Puking had left him hungry while at the same time doing the oxymoron switch of making him despise food.

Not even refusing to blink kept John's face out of his head. It was such a dead-looking face...

A moan echoed from the temple. Against better judgment and a terror prodding Rodney to go screaming into the woods, Rodney ran into the temple, skidding to a stop two feet across the threshold.

Sheppard was conscious – or something like conscious – either way not a good thing in Rodney's opinion. He was still being held by Teyla as Ronon dealt with the mess on the Colonel's back; mini-bottle of rubbing alcohol in one hand, piece of wadded gauze in the other, both from a tac-vest. Each application had John squirming weakly while clinging with a death grip to Teyla's jacket sleeve. The muffled groans of pain rose to whimpers and partial sobs of agony that was making Rodney's stomach one infuriated organ. The Colonel's breath started coming hard, fast, and loud through his nose, with shuddering and muscle spasms on the rise. Whimpers were trying to become screams trapped behind the sealed mouth. The man was shaking hard enough to fly apart.

Rodney lifted a quaking hand to the side of his face, wiping away the moisture that had sprung without warning, sliding down his face. He clenched his jaw, seething, panting, anger rising like a geyser toward the Old Faithful finale.

The screams broke into fitful weeping, with tears squeezing from the unsealed corners of Sheppard's mutilated eyes.

" Stop it," Rodney choked, swallowed, sucked in air, and put the torrential force of his fury behind his words. " Stop it! Stop doing that! You're not doing any good. Just leave him alone until we get him back to Beckett. You're freakin' hurting him!"

Ronon lowered both hands to the floor, clenching and unclenching the fingers around the bloody bit of gauze. He was wearing that look – the barely contained, twitching jaw, burning gaze expression of boiling rage. Rodney waited for it to be turned on him with every intention of meeting it. At that moment, his own anger would have easily matched it, and he longed for the challenge. This was sick, cruel, unnecessary, and Rodney hated it when something made him cry.

Ronon didn't meet Rodney's expectations. No exchange of dagger gazes, the Satedan's head lowered and eyes turned away, closing. Not even a physical blow held that much stunning power, and Rodney balked, lost for words and even lost for thought.

Defeat, Rodney was seeing defeat – in Ronon, the human King Kong, Chewie, Attila the Hun's twin, the man who hid emotions with such ease and skill it was as though they didn't even exist in him.

" I know," Ronon said, barely audible.

Teyla turned her tear-stained face to Rodney. " It is my fault," she said. " I asked Ronon to. I feared infection."

Rodney became immediately all tapped out of anger, leaving a big gaping hole for pity to fill. But not guilt. He felt no qualms about what he had done and said.

" I know," he replied. " Good chance he's already infected. Just..." he went over to her, and knelt beside her. " He's in enough pain."

Teyla nodded stiffly, and when she blinked, another tear fell. " I know," she said. She arched her head back to look down at Sheppard with his head resting immobile on her shoulder but his hands still with their death grip on her jacket. She placed her own chin on his shoulder.

" His shoulder is dislocated," she said in a husky voice unnervingly devoid of emotion. Ronon placed McKay's jacket over the bloody back.

" Fix it when we get home," he whispered.

In the silence, McKay was able to catch the normally imperceptible hum then the rush of ground debris that only came from a landing Jumper. He rose and dashed to the temple entrance just as the Jumper decloaked and the bay doors lowered. Lorne hurried out followed by Gale and two marines carrying a stretcher.

" He in there?" Lorne asked.

Rodney could only nod, and stepped aside as Lorne led the two marines into the temple. Gale, however, remained outside wearing a look of complete shock.

" Does he..." he began, stuttering, " live?"

Again, Rodney could only nod. Gale shook his head.

" Never in the history of the Freedom Regiment's cruelty has anyone ever survived their torture."

Rodney regarded Gale sympathetically. " No other survivors were found?"

Gale forlornly shook his head no. A muffled cry had both men hurrying into the temple to see Sheppard still being held by Teyla with the rest trying to coax Sheppard onto the stretcher. Sheppard's hands were shaking, his grip was so tight. His whole body was shaking, and he flinched when ever someone so much has brushed his arm with their fingertips.

Teyla turned her head to look up at McKay imploringly. " He is frightened," she sated. " I can feel his heart beating. It is going too fast." She was a scream of terror away from breaking down again.

" Uh," Rodney stammered. He was no good in these situations, and Teyla actually turning to him for a solution was making it worse. " Just... keep talking to him. Hold his hand or something. He's blind..." _let's hope not deaf too, _" he has no idea what's going on."

Teyla took up the soothing talk, assuring Sheppard that they were only moving him onto a stretcher, to take him into the Puddle Jumper and take him home. It was when she began stroking his head that the shaking subsided, and as long as she kept stroking they were able to maneuver him onto the stretcher. He released Teyla enough to lie prone with back arched, but kept one hand clinging to her sleeve.

Carrying him to the Jumper was no less of an ordeal. He arched until his ribs looked ready to split his skin, rolled onto his side, curled, only to return to his back, arching again, writhing, whimpering, trembling, then attempting to sit up only to be urged back down by Ronon with a gentle hand on his good shoulder.

" What's on his back?" Lorne asked. The man was maintaining good reactionary control, but his pasty features were telling on him.

" It is a warning," Gale growled, sounding very desirous for a FR neck to break. " Nothing more. Propaganda giving a bad name to our way of life, warning all who oppose the Regiment of what will befall them if they resist. They are silenced to never speak out against the Regiment, and blinded to never see the faces of those behind this slaughter, therefore never being witnesses though they never survive in the end. Your Colonel is the first to be found alive. He must have much strength to be able to endure so much. If it is not the pain that is a Regiment victim's undoing, then it is the hunger and thirst."

McKay's stomach was rebelling again, and suddenly the marines weren't moving fast enough. Even with Sheppard on the Jumper, Rodney's heart pounded out the quickly passing seconds that could very well lead to Sheppard succumbing to the number of abuses he should have already succumbed to.

On the ramp, McKay turned to Gale. " Thanks for your help, a lot. In a way that we can never really repay you for it, and though I know this isn't going to sound grateful but we really need to get back home..."

Gale smiled in understanding. " Then why are you stalling? I will be well. One of your men has offered to return us in a ship. You brought more than this one, if you recall."

" Oh yeah. Well, then, thanks again." McKay hurried into the Jumper, shouting for the doors to shut. The Jumper rose into the air as another decloaked and descended. They were skimming above the forest that whipped below them in a blur of green. Rodney perched nervously on the edge of the bench, just staring at Sheppard where moments ago he could hardly look at the man without his stomach wanting to eject itself.

Sheppard's constant attempts to rise had Teyla allowing him to. She leaned him sideways against her with his head back on her shoulder, hand still clinging to her sleeve, the other hanging uselessly at his side. He looked like a child the way Teyla held him. He was as helpless as one, lost as one, silent but still twitching with the periodic tremors. A child in the body of a rag doll of skin and bone, stitched together and stained in blood. Teyla kept up running her fingers through his hair and speaking softly to him. She then began to rock sideways, and hum a song that even without words was beautiful. Eventually, it all came together to have John's hand loosen itself from the iron-tenacious grip enough to indicate his growing calm, but still hanging on.

The moment had slowed time for Rodney, and the next thing he knew, he barely had time to gasp when he felt the particles of himself whizzing through the wormhole to reform on the other side. He looked up, dazed, numb, certain he was wandering in a dream, to see the Atlantis control room through the view port. The Jumper rose upward to the bay and eased itself into its dock. The bay doors opened to the awaiting med team with Beckett leading the charge, eyes only for John's face as he entered and lowered himself to his knees.

Carson ducked his head and craned his neck to look at John's face without touching it, as though reluctant to do so. " My gosh," he breathed out, pale-faced enough to rival John's complexion. Rodney knew the urge to vomit was mutual even for the man who'd seen everything possibly nasty under the sun. But it was more than simple shock over physical appearance - this burrowed down to the cruelty man was capable of, and the suffering John was going through every second ticking by. Carson reached forward to place his hand beneath John's chin to lift his head. John jerked and went rigid with fingers curling tightly into the fabric of the jacket. He lifted his head like a dog catching a scent or some distant sound and trying to catch it again.

" Easy lad," Beckett said. " It's just me Carson. You're safe, you're all right..." As Carson spoke, he placed his hand against the side of John's face to put physical contact with the verbal, and enforce to John the safety of his surroundings. John's fingers relaxed. Carson kept on talking, Teyla kept on stroking, and together they were able to move John onto a gurney, hook up an IV, and administer pain medication as they wheeled him off the Jumper. Sheppard was even laying on his back, arching without the squirming.

Ronon rose and followed, and McKay copied him feeling too numb to even try to think for himself. He knew following was what he was supposed to do, probably more like wanted to do, so did it like a good little mentally void zombie. On arriving to the infirmary, Teyla leaned in toward Sheppard's ear to whisper something while prying his fingers from her jacket to clasp his hand in her's. Then Carson pulled close the privacy curtain.

" Rodney?"

McKay turned, slow, heavy-headed, and dull witted, to face Elizabeth standing just within the door, her face colorless and her arms hugging herself. Rodney hadn't even seen her enter, heard her come – had actually, completely forgotten about her – but knew she'd seen.

" He'll be all right," McKay said automatically, wondering if he believed it himself but unable to decide. His brain was quite insistent on shutting down, and he was more than ready to comply. Thankfully for him, he had plenty of people around to think for him. Elizabeth stepped forward to take him by the arm and lead him to a bed, then gently nudged him in the shoulder to sit on the edge. A nurse materialized beside him, breaking out the blood pressure cuff and pulling up his sleeve to strap it around his arm.

" Rodney?" Elizabeth said again, her hand on his other arm, pulling his brain back from the quicksand it was sinking into. He looked at her, blinked, and finally felt a few synapses firing to form a response.

" I'm good," he squeaked, and twitched Weir a smile that not even he believed.

" Actually," said the nurse, " your hypoglycemia's trying to kick in, you're showing signs. Blood pressure's a little high and you feel a little warm. You may need to stay for the night for observation..."

Rodney's gaze roved without intent to the curtained off section of the infirmary where shadows milled about.

" He'll be all right," Rodney parroted. He finally realized he didn't believe it.

SGA

Carson wanted to weep – full on break down, bawling like a little boy who just lost his dog. Fortunately he was adult enough to control outbursts of any kind.

Carson couldn't sedate John, or give him the really good pain meds yet. A quick blood test had confirmed a foreign chemical lingering in John's blood-stream, and there was no time to test for possible reactions. Giving him the lesser meds had been risky, and Carson cursed himself for it. However, since reactions had yet to manifest, there was a good chance that the heavier pain meds wouldn't be a problem. A nurse was finding out as Carson prepared to remove the sutures from John's mouth and eyes. The mouth first, in case John needed to scream.

Teyla remained present to hold John's hand. She kept her own hand on the crown of his head, stroking his hairline with her thumb since it did wonders at calming him. The Athosian – pale and capable of sleeping for days by the look of the shadows beneath her eyes – watched on wide eyed and so nervous she was actually shaking.

A contagious reaction. Many of the nurses looked as though they needed a quick trip to the bathroom for a quick heave of their lunch. There was no getting used to this sick display of abuse.

Time to get rid of it, with the good chance of it hurting like hell for John.

Carson picked up tweezers and a small pair of scissors, and started with the mouth. With each thread he snipped – going between the lips – he pulled it from Johns flesh; snip, pull, snip, pull, drops of blood welling from the holes to be swiped away by a nurse with a cloth. It wasn't easy with the sutures being layered on, and having to go through each layer. Beneath the sealed eyelids, the eyes squirmed back and forth, faster and faster, leading to soft sounds of moaning from John. A nurse placed her hands on either side of John's head to immobilize him, another placed her hands lightly on the collarbone and wrist of the injured arm should discomfort lead to thrashing.

Thrashing was averted when Teyla leaned back in to start whispering in John's ear as she ran her fingers through his hair. It was quite motherly in Carson's opinion, and his already towering respect for the Athosian increased several more levels.

John's mouth gradually revealed itself through the suture layers, lips dry and cracked. When Carson pulled the last thread from John's skin, a nurse placed a pad of gauze over the mouth to soak up the blood.

Time for the hard part. Carson bent to lean in close to the eyes and looked the stitchings over. The threads were smaller than what was used for the mouth, the stitches fewer and neatly placed. This hadn't been a hasty act. Someone had actually put a lot of time and care into their work, as a doctor would when stitching up a wound.

Carson led out a sharp breath, and a nurse wiped his brow.

" Here's where the real skill comes in," he murmured. " Sorry, Colonel, but you'll be losing a few eye-lashes I'm afraid."

A nurse held a penlight for better illumination as Carson searched through eyelashes for thread. The eyes were far more time consuming and painstaking, forcing Carson to switch off with a nurse to rest his hands and arms. But he trusted his nurses, who put just as much caution and care into their work as Beckett. They freed one eye, and moved on to the next, switching sides, forcing Teyla to release John's hand to stand at his head, but as long as she stroked his scalp and spoke to him, Sheppard remained calm.

John's other eye was unsealed, and Carson breathed out a sigh of relief. He waved the penlight away in order to peel John's eyelids apart and check the interior without blinding the light-deprived man. Sheppard fought the forced eye-opening by squirming weakly. Carson pulled the lids apart enough to see a lack of any pin holes on the inside of the lids, meaning the needle used had never gone near the eye. It proved to Carson once and for all that this torment had been administered by a professional.

The eye itself appeared fine – bloodshot, but the color still green with no signs of infection. Carson released the lids that John promptly squeezed together.

Beckett looked up at Teyla. " Ya need to rest, lass."

Teyla was fixated on John's face, continuing her ministrations, and did not respond. Exhaustion, shell shock – Teyla was running on automatic, unable to stop or else she'd lose the momentum.

He touched her arm, and she started, turning her head in jerks to Carson.

" Did you say something, Dr. Beckett?"

" Aye, more like ordered. I need to have a nurse check you over, then I need ya to go and rest. You've done well for the Colonel, and I doubt he'd be too happy if he knew you were wearin' yourself to the bone." Teyla looked back at John, still stroking his head and clinging to his hand as though holding on had become more for her sake than for John's.

" He'll be fine, lass," Carson kindly assured. " He's got his sight and his voice back, and that should help ease him should he get agitated. Like I said, you did good."

Teyla nodded in the glassy-eyed manner of one who could easily nod off while walking. Carson made eye contact with the nearest nurse and nodded to her. The nurse nodded in reply to the unspoken order and took Teyla's arm to guide her to a bed.

Carson heaved a deep breath. " All right, people, not done yet. Got wounds to clean, dehydration and malnutrition to deal with, and a possible infection. And I need those X-rays..."

SGA

The curtain opened in a ringing of metal on metal, and Carson stepped out passing one hand over his numb face. He was exhausted, but the good kind of exhausted the product of having worked hard for certain results, and achieving those results.

" How is he?"

Carson jumped at the voice with his heart jumping with him. He jumped again on seeing Rodney staring at him from the bed across from John's. The scientist was in scrubs, covered, and hooked to an IV. Carson exhaled heavily with a hand over his heart.

" Bugger, lad, ya scared me. You need to be restin'..."

Rodney's face morphed into a fractious glare. " Carson, the minute I close my eyes, all I see is Sheppard's face in the aftermath of his horror movie make-over. Now I don't know about you, but I find it a rather good stimulant that could keep me awake for days."

" You sayin' you need a sedative, then?"

" I think me being awake is proof enough of that. And you saw what they did to John."

Carson nodded. He was going to need sedation himself if he didn't want to dream.

" How _is he?_" Rodney repeated.

Carson sighed. " A mite better physically, I'll tell ya that. Removed the stitches on his face, and hopefully the punctures should heal nicely without much scarrin'. Cleaned the wounds on his back, covered 'em, bound his ribs which if one rib wasn't broken then it was cracked – his whole bloody ribcage, busted, every one! Bloody buggers," he added under his breath.

" Amen to that," Rodney replied.

" We popped his shoulder back in, put the arm in a sling... already started treatment for the dehydration and malnutrition... He'll be walkin' with a limp for a while. His legs weren't broken but they were severely bruised, especially in the hip. Wrists needed to be wrapped due to abrasions. The broken collar bone the sling'll handle... Who the bloody hell did this to him?"

Rodney, seemingly satisfied with Carson's treatment of John, rolled his head to stare up at the ceiling.

" The new Hitler. Seems they didn't like us off worlders talking alliances with the non-Nazis folk. Guess they felt like taking it out on John."

Carson balked in disgust. " Gaw, always bloody something isn't it. I'm assumin' he was takin' layin' cover fire?"

" Give that man a stuffed sheep. I always knew you were psychic."

" No. When it comes to you lot, your lives are like a broken record." Carson then shook his head introspectively. " You know... a man can only take so much hell..."

Rodney looked away, tilting his chin down to his chest to stare at his hands intertwined on his stomach. Carson twisted his mouth in a small grimace for his thinking out loud. Granted Rodney had probably been thinking along the same lines, but for some reason turning a mere thought into the verbal for anyone to hear tended to ground that thought so that there was no choice but to face it in the here and now. And McKay had needed a moment longer in denial before it had come to that, and Carson had just fudged it. He placed a hand on the physicist's shoulder and squeezed.

" We just need to be there for him, lad. He can get through this. He's done it before."

McKay's jaw twitched, then his face morphed, darkening, twisting into an expression that sent ice shooting down Carson's spine.

" If we'd gotten there sooner," he spat, " then he wouldn't have gone through it at all."

SGA

Moaning, that's what woke McKay up. Soft moaning that interchanged with soft whimpering. McKay snapped his eyes open, then his head up off the pillow, glancing around in the fogged-brained bewilderment of the recently awake. He blinked a few times, recalling his surroundings, and the situation that had brought him to these surroundings. Recollection poured in like molasses, until another moan pulled his attention to the bed across from his own. One look at the weakly writhing frame, and recollection went from heavy syrup to water from a fire hose, shoving back the last granules of sleep from McKay's brain.

McKay threw aside the blankets and moved his legs to plant his bare feet on the cold floor. He shuffled quickly to Sheppard's bedside. The man was breathing fast in short, shallow pants, his eyes squeezed shut, and his free hand gripping the blankets hard enough to puncture the layers with his fingernails. He continued to moan and whimper on every exhale, and the heart monitor was keeping time with the breaths.

McKay's own heart tried to match it. He searched the dimly lit infirmary for Carson or a nurse, and was about to go off in search of one or the other, when Sheppard's voice pulled him back.

With his hands on the rail, McKay leaned in closer to Sheppard's head. He could have sworn he just heard the man call out to Ford.

McKay swallowed convulsively. " Uh... Colonel? Sheppard?" He placed his hand on John's forehead, and John flinched, cringing, whimpering now more than moaning. Heat oozed off him in waves that could have made the air ripple had the lights been stronger.

" What..." came a more audible word within the whimpers. " What are they doing?" McKay's heart stuttered in his chest. John sounded terrified, lost, like a child losing sight of a parent. His breathing increased, as did his heart rate, and he was trembling.

" Ford. What are they doing? Ford? Mom?"

Rodney snatched his hand back. " Oh, gosh, he's delirious." Once again he started to turn to go seek out Carson, and once again he was brought back by Sheppard's desperate, pleading voice.

" Where are you? Don't leave... Please don't leave me... Please... Come – come back... Mom? Ford? Don't leave... Please..."

Rodney's heart split into fragments. He reached down and gripped John's fingers, squeezing gently.

" Hey, Sheppard, it's all right. No one's leaving you. You're not alone. Come on, open your eyes, just open your eyes, you'll see."

Sheppard's head turned jerkily from side to side. " No... No, no, no, no... I can't, I can't... What are they doing, what's happening, why won't they stop...? Please, let it stop, let it, please... Teer. What's happening...?" And Sheppard broke down into a quiet sob, body jerking and tears squeezing out through the corners of his eyes to slide down his temple where they were soaked into his hair.

" It won't stop..."

McKay's throat closed off, and he swallowed repeatedly with nothing able to go down. " Oh crap, Sheppard, it is _over_, they've stopped, nothing's happening to you. Just please open your eyes and see. Just look at me. It's me, McKay."

Sheppard sucked in a shuddering breath, arching slightly off the bed. " McKay?"

Rodney smiled a wavering, sad smile. " Yeah. McKay. Resident genius. You're home, you're safe, nothing's happening to you. Just open your eyes, it's okay to now. Come on, just a quick look, you'll see."

John gulped in more breaths, and whispered something.

" What? What did you say?" McKay asked, leaning in closer. He could hear John swallow.

" 'M... scared," he rasped, barely. " Scared."

McKay maintained his grip on John's fingers, and placed his other hand on John's sharp shoulder. The constriction leaked from Rodney's throat into his chest until even his heart hurt to beat. For a moment, he couldn't speak, and the more he fought back the tears, the stronger the pain became. Finally, the tears poured without him, and the muscles of his throat loosened enough for words to emit.

" Ah, crap, Sheppard... Don't do this to me. I'm no good at this." McKay lifted his shoulder and turned his head to wipe the wet from his face. " Just... trust me. Don't you trust me?"

" I trust you, McKay."

McKay started, head twitching back. He honestly thought he'd never hear those words again, and definitely not in that questioning tone as though McKay should have already realized this. Conviction, not resignation, and Rodney wondered if it was the fever talking, or if John had never really stopped trusting him.

" Then prove it," he shot. " Open your eyes."

And John did, prying swollen eyelids apart, just a slit fluttering back toward sliding shut, struggling against the remaining disinfectant goop Carson had smeared over the punctures. He blinked several times, eyes rolling about in the sockets, unfocused, bloodshot, and glassy with fever, until they finally settled on McKay.

John's breathing rate and heart rate descended, and he let out a long sigh. Moisture pooled within the shallow opening of the eyelids until the tears finally spilled over.

McKay smiled. " See? Told you. You're all right now. You're home, safe."

John's eyes blinked close, and his head dropped to the side, hiding his face. It would have been easy to assume him asleep, except for the jerks McKay felt in John's shoulder, and the sound of his uneven breathing.

John was weeping.

SGA

Teyla had slept because she had to, because her body wanted to, though her mind didn't. So she'd suffered the nightmares of hearing John's screams muffled by sutures, of finding him as she had yet without the pulse, or feeling him die in her arms as his heart slowed beat by beat with no one coming to help him. Each dream changed every time she jolted awake with a gasp and drenched in sweat until she couldn't take it anymore.

It wasn't quite morning, but close enough. She bathed, dressed and hurried to the infirmary for confirmation that her dreams had been only dreams. She forewent breakfast, her stomach too twisted and clenched to handle any food.

The twisting extended into her throat when she walked into the infirmary, the privacy curtain was pulled away, letting John be the first thing she saw. And what she saw she didn't like. Sweat covered him in a solid sheen, an oxygen mask obscured his white face, his sunken and bruised eyes were unfocused and half lidded, and his breathing was loud, rasping, and labored. In combination with how horribly thin he was ( looking even thinner, if that were possible), Teyla nearly looked away. It was like seeing the beginnings of a corpse. But she didn't look away. She swallowed her discomfort and moved toward John, forcing a smile on her face to hide her trepidation.

She doubted its sincerity, but John didn't seem to notice. She could discern him smiling through the transparent mask, and he lifted his trembling hand to wave at her weakly.

" Hhhi Teyla," he hoarsely said, then started coughing hard until his body convulsed. He dropped his hand, and pulled in a short, shuddering breath to release as a sigh. " How are you?"

Teyla's lips twitched. Holding the smile was starting to hurt. She wanted to cry. Isn't this what she feared would happen? Infection? Although McKay had probably been right, and it had set in longer before they had even found John. She took John's heated hand in hers and gently squeezed his fingers.

" I am well," she said. " And far more concerned for you."

Even through the mask, John's smile seemed a little drunken, and his eyes were like glass. Teyla had seen it before, time and again, always after an injury that led to illness, his blood and body soaked with the chemicals of medication and fever.

John huffed out a laugh. " I'm good."

Of course he would say that. It wasn't as though he currently had the capacity to know any better. But Teyla decided to just play along, seeing as how it was the truth as far as John was concerned.

" That is... good." For now it was good. But when the drugs wore off and coherence returned, then what? How 'good' would John really be?

" Teyla, lass, glad you're here," said Carson, coming up from behind but going around to the other side of the bed. A nurse followed pushing a tray of gauze strips, pads, and tape, plus a syringe and the items Teyla had seen Beckett use when cleaning wounds. " I was thinkin' about callin' ya in," he said, uncapping the syringe and handing it to the nurse. The nurse went back around the bed to inject the contents into Sheppard's I.V.

Carson poured disinfectant solution into a metal bowl. " Ya did well in keepin' the Colonel calm I thought I might utilize your skills today. The lad's quite fogged up in the head thanks to the medication, but the fever's made him a bit delirious. Nothin' toward violence, mind ya, but he became a tad anxious while we were cleanin' his wrists two hours ago and I didn't want to risk somethin' worse when we cleaned his back so I held off."

Teyla nodded, almost enthusiastically. She hadn't realized until now, but she wanted to help, needed to. " I understand, doctor. I would be most glad to help."

Carson smiled and nodded. " Good. Let's start off with ya helping me lift him. You take him by the shoulder and I'll get the rest of him."

Teyla did so, while Carson placed one hand just below John's neck and the other lower applying pressure directly on the spine. John stiffened, his eyes remaining glazed but going on confused. They gently lifted him into the upright position, and Carson kept his hand below John's neck as he untied the gown with his other hand. The nurse opened the back and pulled the front down below John's chest.

Carson reached forward to take Teyla's hand and place it where Carson's hand had been a moment ago. Her other hand she positioned on the top of John's bony shoulder. " Keep him steady, lass. If he starts to get agitated, talk to him like ya did before. If ya have to move your hands, Jenny'll take over for ya."

Teyla nodded uncomfortably. John's backbone was digging into her palm, but it gave her the impression that she was pushing against his backbone – his fragile looking backbone. And the heat of his fever was soaking into her hand, causing her palm to sweat and making John's skin more slippery. Carson and the nurse were methodical on removing the bandaging around John's upper body, then the blood-flecked gauze pads beneath that covering the marks. Beneath it all was revealed protruding ribs discolored by a patchwork of bruises, and the glaring red stitched markings, several of which looked to be inflamed.

Teyla felt the start of minor tremors in John's shoulder and back. Tilting her head to the side, Teyla could safely assume the tremors were from cold air against wet, heated skin. John looked confused, a little troubled, but not exactly any kind of agitated to warrant shudders.

Until Carson started cleaning the marks using a disinfectant soaked swab. John's muscles went rigid, and he probably would have stiffened if he had more strength. Instead, he went from tremors to all out trembling, his eyes darting back and forth until he finally turned his questioning gaze on Teyla. She squeezed his shoulder in comfort and leaned in enough to talk softly to him.

" Colonel Sheppard, it is all right. You are being healed. No one is hurting you."

He nodded imperceptibly and looked away, down and the blankets hiding his legs, twisting the edges of the top-most cover through his thin fingers. Teyla was premature in thinking that John was handling this well. As the cleaning went on, one wound at a time starting at the top row and going down, John's breathing increased, fogging up the mask and interrupted by coughing, and the heart monitor picked up speed. He was shaking, bad. Teyla leaned her forehead against the side of his head to speak directly into his ear, repeating over and over that he was okay, that he was just being healed, and that he would be all right. Each time, John nodded. But when Teyla lifted her head away to look at his face, she saw only terror.

Until he looked at her. Then she saw terror and trust.

And it hurt like a bullet to the gut.

Trust was good, supposed to be good. It wasn't as though Teyla were lying to him just to get him to cooperate. He _was_ being healed, things _would_ be all right. But it still felt misplaced. Consolation wasn't enough. She wanted to stop John's reminisce of his torture, not talk him through it. She wanted to save him, earn the trust he was showing her, make it feel real instead of like something she was using against him. It was a ridiculous notion, she knew, but she couldn't shake it off.

_I am helping him, I am._ It would have been easier to believe if he hadn't look so frightened.

At least it wasn't crippling fright. He clenched the blanket until his knuckles went white, shook, looked to Teyla for assurances, and that was it. Teyla moved her hand up some to massage the back of John's neck and kept up the reassuring talk. Then he started coughing to have him doubling over and tears racing with sweat down his face. Teyla slid her arm across his chest below the collarbones to have him leaning against her with his chin on her shoulder. She felt his throat move in a convulsive swallow against her own collarbone, and his breath sounded hallow, fast, and sharp within the mask.

" Almost done, here," Carson said.

When John finished coughing, he remained slumped against Teyla in absolute exhaustion. She was overwhelmed, again, by the feeling that if she let John go, then he would be gone, taken away, again. Carson finished with the last of the wounds, then covered them with two large pads of gauze, wiping John's back to dry it and apply the tape. With the nurse's help they lifted John enough to wrap the strips around his chest, then replaced the sweat-soaked gown with a fresh one. They lowered him back down on the bed, but kept the covers at his waist to allow him to cool. He was asleep, and even in sleep he still looked exhausted. When Teyla placed her hand back on his shoulder lightly, she found him to still be shaking, maybe because he was cold, or maybe not.

" Ya did good lass," Carson said.

Teyla's eyes blurred with moisture, and she irritably wiped them one handed. " It reminded me," she said, " of when we found him... I found him. He was shaking... like he was now." She rubbed his shoulder, still reluctant to let go.

" Teyla?"

She looked up at Carson, who was looking at her in concern.

" Ya, all right love?"

Teyla swallowed back the lump in her throat and nodded. " I am just... worried."

Carson breathed out through his nose and leaned with his arms folded on the rail. " I can see that. We're doin' all we can. The rest is up to John. And knowin' him, were I a bettin' man, I would bet in favor of the Colonel. In fact, I always do. He's too stubborn not to fight."

Teyla smiled sadly. " It is why he is still alive, I think."

SGA

Rodney had mentioned something about Ronon growing roots if he remained where he was for any longer. Ronon didn't care. The spot where he leaned against the wall was a good one. He had Sheppard in his sights without being in the way of the nurses or Carson, and watched as a scrub-clad nurse aided Sheppard in drinking from a mug full of broth.

The breathing apparatus below Sheppard's nose was a nice change from the all encompassing oxygen mask, but Ronon didn't think the Colonel looked any better. Probably because of all the drugs, and the lingering traces of illness that made him white as the sheets of the bed. He also wouldn't stop shaking. Mostly in the hands, but Ronon had sharp enough eyes to discern the minute tremors in the bony shoulders.

When Sheppard had taken all he could stand of the broth, the nurse set the mug aside on a tray, and next helped Sheppard ease back against the pillows. She pulled the pile of blankets up to his neck, lowered the head of the bed, dimmed the lights over his area, and walked away.

Ronon moved in, taking long strides across the infirmary until he reached the bed beside Sheppard's and eased himself down sitting on the edge. He watched Sheppard sleep, and waited. It would come. No matter the amount of drugs, no matter the exhaustion, Ronon knew it would come, and he was going to be there when it did.

It was something he could do. All he could do, really. He had wanted to return to Galathaan and hunt down every last member of the Freedom Regiment. Because Weir wouldn't let him, he had to settle for this, which wasn't enough but better than nothing.

_We could have gotten to him sooner. _Not should have, because that was a given. Could have – could have tracked them, could have staked out the ruins and brought more men to do so; something different that would have spared Sheppard the marks he would forever carry on his back. Beckett had assured that he had done all he could to keep the scarring from being sever, but there would still be scars.

Sheppard's head moved, lolling to one side. It was beginning.

Ronon knew he would occasionally – more like forever – believe that they could have reached Sheppard sooner. Sheppard will attempt to assure him otherwise, of course, but it will not appease the need for retribution.

Ronon heard the whispers around the city (mostly from the women) of the Satedan being the mysterious, cryptic one. As Sheppard might say, it was a load of bull. Ronon was just Ronon. He did what needed to be done to survive, and didn't waste time on trivialities. Just because he wasn't big on drawn out conversations didn't make him something to be puzzled over.

Sheppard was the odd one. Admittedly lazy yet with a persistence that never ceased to impress the former Runner. Strange, confusing, and a seeming weakling one moment, then brutal and relentless the next. And he was loyal, not because he had to be, not because his superiors ordered him to be, but because it was just the way he was. Ronon was starting to lose count over the times Sheppard had come back for him, made sure that he was all right, or going to be all right. Even after tying Sheppard up and holding him prisoner, Sheppard had still taken him in. Where as had roles been reversed, Ronon would have shot Sheppard dead the moment he got lose.

Today, just thinking about putting a bullet in Sheppard made him bristle with disgust. Okay, so he'd threaten to kill John on Sateda if he interfered. It had been an empty threat. Perhaps he might have decked Sheppard – which he could live with – but never killed him. When John was changing into the insect creature, Ronon had come to terms with the possibility of having to shoot Sheppard dead, then made sure that his weapon was always set to stun.

Ronon had no problem with honesty, but in a rare moment, Ronon wasn't being honest with himself. Should there ever come a time where Ronon would be forced to have to shoot Sheppard, there would be hesitation, even an attempt to find some alternative.

Ronon could never kill Sheppard, or do anything that would hurt him.

Sheppard's legs shifted beneath the covers, and his head whipped in the other direction. He tried to roll onto his side, made it part way, then squirmed back onto his back. His breathing increased, the machine monitoring his heart beeped faster, and when he next whipped his head to the side, sweat flew from his face. Sheppard moaned, then whimpered out a small, desperate, frightened sound.

" No..."

Ronon stood and moved closer to the bed. Sheppard writhed until the blankets twisted and tangled around his legs, and his hands clawed at the mattress.

" It... It hurts... What... Are they... they doing...?

Sheppard rolled onto his side facing away from Ronon. The hand of his formerly dislocated arm groped his face, and the other reached back scrabbling over then through the gaps in the gown to feel his back. His perpetually moving legs folded up toward his chest, straightened, folded again, and remained twitching in that position.

" What are they... Oh, gosh, it hurts... What's happening? What's happening? What's happening...?" Over and over and over. Sheppard rolled into a tighter, shivering ball as though trying to make himself as small as possible and hide away from the world.

Ronon was waiting for Sheppard to wake up, except Sheppard seemed to be sinking deeper and deeper into his nightmare. His thin gown was already soaked with sweat and clinging to him like a second skin. The nightmare continued to reduce him into something small, trembling, helpless, and lost like a sick and abandoned child.

Ronon couldn't let the nightmare do that. He reached out and clasped Sheppard's sweaty arm. Sheppard's whole body seemed to explode into action. He jolted, and jerked upward with a strangled cry of terror. That terror and remnants of the dream were fogging Sheppard's reality as he tried to bolt from the bed, clawing and scrambling to get over the rail.

" Sheppard!" Ronon bellowed. He grabbed Sheppard by the arm and sleeve of the gown, and pulled him into a tight but gentle embrace. Ronon held onto Sheppard, the weaker man struggling against the stronger, gasping, whimpering, and crying out trying to escape. The monitor was shrieking over Sheppard's cries, so Ronon slapped the switch that shut it off one handed.

" Sheppard! Wake up! You're home, you're safe! Calm down!"

Ronon's words may have pushed through, or Sheppard had merely exhausted himself. His struggling ceased almost abruptly and John's body went limp in Ronon's arms. John remained that way, shivering and gasping for breath. His heart was pounding, Ronon could feel it pulsing against the arm wrapped around Sheppard's chest. Carefully, almost nervously handling such a frail and busted body, Ronon eased John back into the bed, and only then realized that Sheppard was clinging to his shirt with one hand. At the same time, Beckett and a nurse came rushing over.

" What the bloody hell happened!" Carson demanded, bringing his stethoscope to his ears in preparation to take vitals. Ronon would have stepped back, but Sheppard wouldn't relent his grip. It would have been easy to pry the weakened limb from the cloth, yet for reasons Ronon didn't have an explanation for, he couldn't, so just stepped to the side instead.

" Nightmare," Ronon said. " Bad one."

The nurse switched the monitor on that was rapid without the shrieks. Sheppard's glassy but wild eyes were darting all over the place, and when Carson slid the other end of the scope down the Colonel's collar, he flinched with a gasp and attempted to pull away.

Carson's hand shot out to Sheppard's shoulder and squeezed. " Easy son! Easy. It's all right lad, you're all right..."

The realization of this finally started to worm its way deeper into Sheppard's mind. The tension was made palpable through his trembling, but he stopped trying to get away. He stared at the ceiling wide-eyed and agitated as Carson listened to the rapid heartbeat. It took a moment, but that beat eventually, gradually, began to calm along with his breathing. Sheppard squeezed his eyes shut momentarily, and the next they opened, all the fight and terror had gone out of them.

Sheppard released a shuddering breath as his eyelids sunk to slits. " S-sorry," he whispered.

" Not your fault, son," Carson said, removing the scope. " We don't choose our dreams. Do ya need anything? Something for the pain, or a sedative perhaps to help ya sleep?"

Sheppard actually nodded to both. Not that the man needed a sedative – he looked ready to drop back into to dreams any second. Yet there in lay the problem – dreams. Carson had said that sedation helped against the dreams.

Beckett checked for any misplaced bones especially in the ribs before having the nurse administer the needed medicines. During the entire process, Sheppard had yet to let go of Ronon's shirt.

" Rest easy, John," Beckett said, giving the Colonel a light pat on the shoulder. Beckett looked at Ronon, giving him the 'all's okay now' nod, then left with the nurse following after.

Sheppard still had a hold of Ronon's shirt. The drugs were starting to take effect. Sheppard, however, fought them long enough to roll his eyes up at Ronon. Sheppard's expression was abashed, but also uncertain, almost verging on timid. On that pale, thin face, it made him appear even more sickly.

" Um..." he said, and twitched a sheepish smile. " H-hey big guy. Um... Could you do me a favor?"

Ronon didn't hesitate with his reply. " Yeah?"

" Could you... um... s-stick around for a little while. I mean, you don't have to... It's just... Well... um... You see..."

" I'll stay," Ronon said. Sheppard relaxed, almost as though he were melting into the mattress. He flashed another sheepish smile before succumbing to sleep.

" Thanks..."

Sheppard's hand lost the fight to keep hold of Ronon's shirt and fell bone-lessly to dangle over the rail. Ronon took John's arm and gingerly placed it beneath the blankets.

Ronon would stay until Sheppard woke up. It was the least he could do. It was all he could do.

SGA

A/N: Still one more to go. We've had the whump, the angst, so now on to the comfort.


	3. Part 3

A/N: All reviewers rock. I'm loving the feedback folks. Last chapter. Fast, huh? Actually, I had intended this to be a one-shot, but the muses wouldn't have it, and they're the boss when it comes to the fics.

Also, after careful deliberations because I was bored, I have come to the conclusion that Sheppard _would_ be an Animaniacs fan, especially of the Goodfeathers, and Pinky and the Brain.

Part three

John snapped his eyes open with a quiet gasp and a full body jerk that had him knocking his back into the rail of his bed. He gritted and hissed against the pain of impact, straightening rather than arching since arching just made his chest hurt. When the throbbing, burning pain dulled to a throbbing, burning annoyance, the tension leaked out of John's body leaving him limp as a dead fish. Cold crept over him like a veil of frosty air, making him shiver, and forcing his languid arm to take action and pull the blankets up to his jaw.

And still he shivered, no matter how he curled, and no matter how many blankets were piled over him. Carson had said something about it being a part of the aftermath of his fever and with so much weight lost. John just took his word for it, and pleaded with him to do something about it. John had been doing a lot of begging lately. It was pathetic, and he despised himself for it, but seemed unable to help it.

He was at everyone's mercy. It was an odd thing to feel let alone think in terms of the people who he saw beyond friends as being family, thus making him even more pathetic than the begging. He couldn't explain it, and hated himself for it. Every time he closed his eyes returning to the black nothing behind his eyelids, with no Ford, Sumner, his mother, or Teer to interrupt it, the cold pressed harder and the world around him expanded until he felt too small and in too deep to find his way back out of the darkness. He couldn't move except to curl tighter trying to shrink out of existence, and wait. Something always happened when he was in the darkness, or at least was supposed to happen. The last time he was in the darkness, something had happened. Of course, neither had he been alone.

He was alone now. No one to warn him against waking. No choice to be made. He'd made his choice, had been right in making it, or thought he had been. Yet the darkness kept coming back, and he kept waiting for what was supposed to come next. It was supposed to be over. He'd made his choice... It was supposed to be over...

" Colonel Sheppard?"

John jolted, flipping from his side to his back and wincing at the pressure against his wounds. He pushed his hand into the mattress attempting to haul himself upright and relieve the pressure. A hand on his shoulder made him flinch a second time.

" Easy Colonel, easy son. Just calm yourself, I'll take care of this."

John looked up at Carson, watched as the Highland doc injected something into the IV port with a syringe, then turned back to the bed and raised the head. He helped John ease upright a little, pulling him by one arm then adjusting the pillows to support him. He pulled the blankets up and tucked them around John's shoulders until he was sure they wouldn't slip back down.

" Better?" Beckett asked. John nodded. The burning and pain weren't even an annoyance now.

" Another dream?" Carson asked next.

John lifted one shoulder in a shrug, rustling the sheets. A hand settled on his shoulder, and he flinched for a third time when his reality momentarily tilted. The drugs, and constant interrupted sleep, kept disorienting him. He hadn't been comfortable with touching since... well... since he was mutilated by the pseudo-Nazis.

Instead of removing his hand, Beckett squeezed John's sharp shoulder in understanding and to ground him a little more in reality. " I can give ya somethin' to help ya sleep after your exam."

John shook his head. " No. Not yet." It would have been laughably ironic had he been in a better mood, but he was tired of sleep.

Carson nodded soberly. " All right. Lean forward a bit, then."

John complied, and flicked his tongue over his dry lips, keeping the tip of his tongue above the pin-prick holes around his mouth. But the moment his tongue was back in his mouth, it roved over the exit holes as though trying to smooth them away.

Carson untied the gown and lowered it below John's chest along with the blankets. Cold air caressed his back when the tape was pulled away taking the pad covering the marks with it. He started shivering until his teeth chattered. He cringed when Carson touched his back; an unconscious, involuntary reaction to an otherwise harmless action. John was so tired that he didn't even care he'd done it, though he knew the shame would come eventually. Most of his conscious actions were being delayed.

" It's all right, lad," Carson assured. " Looks like the wounds are holding well. Guess I didn't remove the sutures too early after all. And no signs of recurring infection..."

Carson recovered the wounds with gauze pads and adhesive, then put on his stethoscope and placed the other end to John's ribs. Carson listened to his lungs, having him breathe in and out, then his heart. When finished, he retied the gown and helped John ease back against the pillows. Once more, he made sure the blankets were secure around John's shoulders.

" Ya still cold, lad?"

Carson asked. John didn't look at him. He was too tired to try and make eye contact, so stared vacantly at his covered feet.

" Sometimes," he mumbled.

He heard Carson snort derisively. " Don't give me that, lad, I can see ya shiverin'. I was gonna give ya the good news of puttin' ya in scrubs, but I think I'll up it to somethin' long sleeved, along with some sweats and socks. If that doesn't work, then I'm optin' for a warming blanket. Or maybe I'll just set ya loose in your quarters so you can fiddle with the temperature to your heart's content, make it swealterin' if ya want."

John glanced at Carson, saw him grin, but couldn't respond in kind. He should have been happy to hear it, yet for some reason, his heart thudded in trepidation. It seemed too soon. Wasn't it to soon? It felt too soon.

But what other reason would he have for staying?

" John?" Carson said. His smile had pulled into a small frown.

" Yeah, that's all right," John said, and it felt like a blatant lie.

Maybe it was. Carson was looking troubled. " All right, then. I'll send someone to fetch ya some clothes."

Carson turned and started moving away. John stiffened, his heart lurching, then slamming harder and faster. Carson's start at departure hit John with an inexplicable sense of terror that came out of nowhere, squeezing him with blind panic so that he reacted without thinking, reaching out to snag the doctor's lab-coat.

" Doc?" John's voice cracked. He was pleading again, and winced. Beckett turned, and all panic washed out of John so utter shame could take it's place.

" Aye?"

Sheppard thought, frantic and fast. " Um... I'm... A little thirsty..."

Carson, brow furrowed, nodded once. " All right." He poured water from a plastic pitcher on the bed-side table into a plastic cup, and handed it over to John. As John sipped, taking his sweet time about it, Carson contacted Rodney over the radio asking him to bring the needed clothes from John's quarters.

John continued to deliberately drink until enough anger accumulated over this childish action to allow him to pull away from it and hand the cup back. Beckett took it and set it on the table.

" Listen John," he said. " I'm just going to fetch ya somethin' that'll help ya sleep, then I'll be right back."

He knew. Carson knew. John was being that freakin' obvious. Swallowing tightly, John nodded, and watched as Carson headed toward the medicine cabinet.

_What is wrong with me_! John had never despised himself more then he did at that moment. He didn't understand any of it.

Or perhaps he did and refused to acknowledge it.

_Don't want to be alone. Gee, I wonder why? Ford, think you could answer that one?_ There came no reply in his mind, and John found it depressing, both because he had been hoping for a reply from a hallucination, and because none came. Strange how a hallucination had made him feel less empty.

Rodney arrived with the clothes and dumped them into Carson's arms.

" Here. You honestly couldn't have asked Teyla or Ronon to do this? Or Lorne, or any other marine for that matter?"

" I don't think Sheppard's men would have felt comfortable rummagin' through their CO's drawers, or Colonel Sheppard feel comfortable knowing that Teyla was doin' the rummagin'. And Ronon might not have understood what to look for. He still hasn't quite grasped the difference between BDUs and blue jeans," Carson said, setting the clothes within John's reach.

" Need any help, lad?" Carson asked.

John shook his head, then unburied himself from beneath the blankets to reach for the clothes.

Carson stepped back. " Right then." He pulled the privacy curtain shut.

The shivering resumed when the blankets were pushed away, and stuck with him through the arduous process of removing the sling and gown, and slipping on the boxers, sweats, and sweat shirt one-handed without getting out of bed.

" Am I to assume normal clothes a sign of improvement?" Rodney asked, and John could have sworn he caught a hopeful note in the usually irate man's tone. The conversation was low, as though the two men actually believed that Sheppard couldn't hear them.

" Well," said Carson, " I'm considerin' releasin' him to his quarters seein' as how he is improvin'. But I'm a mite concerned about him always feelin' cold. It's easy enough to explain. Sheppard's so bloody thin were he in California durin' summer he'd still be wearin' a sweater. But... I don't know. It's just somethin' that's got me worried. Even with blankets piled he's still shiverin', and without them he's freezin'. Not to mention his skin gets ice-cold to the touch. Could be some sort of delayed shock reaction... I just hope it's got nothin' to do with his heart. His heart sounds fine when I listen, then again there might be something there I'm not catchin'."

John doubted it had anything to do with his heart. As far as he was concerned, his heart felt fine, beating as it should be.

The act of dressing had taken more out of John than he knew it should have, and slowed his progress in getting back under the covers. Carson either had bat ears or was some kind of psychic after all. He stepped through the curtains and helped John nestle back beneath the layer of blankets, pulling them up to the Colonel's neck when he was situated.

" Better?" Carson asked.

John nodded. It was better, slightly better, especially when he curled up. The curtains had opened up enough for John to see Rodney standing two beds away. He looked uncomfortable, almost pale, as though torn between wanting to approach or turn tail and run. Their eyes met, John's locking onto Rodney's, and once again John found himself begging but without words. He wanted Rodney to stay, just until Carson's sleepy-juice kicked in, and tried to convey as much through sight alone.

It apparently worked. Rodney started heading toward the bed, only to be intercepted by Carson.

" Sorry lad. I just gave Sheppard somethin' that's going to knock him out for a while."

" Well can't I stay until it does?"

John never heard the answer. He didn't even have a chance to fight. The sedative rushed warm through his veins, and pulled him deep under.

_ssssssssssssssssssssssss_

John's eyes didn't snap open when his body bolted upright. He heaved breaths that sent saliva flying from his mouth, and searched his eyes and his lips for the stitches.

No stitches, just their marks, and John's eyes still wouldn't open.

" Come on, come on," he pleaded, then pried one eyelid apart with his fingers when pleading didn't work. The absence of resistance against his eyelid sent a jolt of surprise through his tired body, and got the other eye to open on its own accord. His mouth didn't need any coaxing.

John remained upright in his bed, in what was supposed to be his _warm_ quarters, gasping in air until his ribs throbbed and his heart finally realized it wasn't being deprived of oxygen. He shook with adrenaline, confusion, fright, and cold. The damn cold wouldn't leave him. Clammy, wet, clinging cold, as though the arctic air of the cave dungeon had grown on him like moss on a tree.

The dark and the cold had followed him home. His eyes were adjusting to the dark, except John didn't want them to. He didn't want to see shapes within the darkness. Hell, childish as it seemed, he didn't want to be in the dark. It was too damn quiet, too clinging. But John was so tired.

John's heart resumed pounding. He had no idea what to do. Go to Carson, get a sedative perhaps – John didn't even care if Carson insisted he stay the night in the infirmary. Darkness was never so absolute in there, and there was always someone around...

John squeezed his eyes shut and touched his fingers to his forehead. This was bad, really bad, screwed up so he needed to be booted in Heightmeyer's direction cracked in the head kind of bad. He was afraid of the dark, afraid of solitude, and couldn't close his eyes or mouth for more than two minutes before phantom pains leaked into his sleep-deprived brain.

He snapped his eyes open when they began to ache.

There was a chance he could get over this. A good chance since it wasn't Post Traumatic Stress's first attempt at trying to move into his psyche. There were no cures, just loads of denial, struggling, fighting, and tenacious resolve that left him too exhausted to dream anymore. And in that kind of a war, there were no victories, only truces.

The thought of that struggle, already running its course after being triggered by the first 'you'll need to see Heightmeyer' that wouldn't be the last, made John exhausted. He believed, with every fiber of his being, that if he could just sleep without the aid of a sedative, it would be the kick in the head victory that would make the rest of this war go downhill. It was always the dreams that set him back. Stupid, pointless dreams. He hadn't even been awake for the torture, seen what was being done, and in a twisted sort of way hadn't even been alone. But no Ford, Sumner, Mom, and Teer to pull him out of anything now. No one to wrangle the dreams, so he would just have to live with them until some new nightmare shoved them aside.

It was always when he reached the point of no nightmares, or no dreams, that he knew he was going to be okay. He just needed to sleep, uninterrupted and warm. That's all. And even if it wasn't all, it would at least help.

_So how does one accomplish the perfect sleep without using drugs?_

John couldn't answer that, and he knew there was no point in trying to go back to sleep. After the initial nightmare, the rest of his night would be spent snapping awake when the phantom pains heralding the dreams slunk in like rats. Agitation kept him company as the night wore on, leaving him both exhausted and wired when morning crept in gray and cold. Then his day was passed in bed between sleep and awake, not really dreaming but not really coherent either.

Three days of this had gone by since being released, and John was sick of it. The throbbing head, muscle aches, dizziness, nausea and lack of appetite because of the nausea – it was ridiculous. Just a vicious cycle of misery with the easiest cure.

_Just get over it!_

_Yeah, tell me how and I will._

John's body hummed with increasing agitation, and he was starting to shiver again.

_Screw this. _John tossed back the covers and slid out of bed, then grabbed his covers and struggled one handed to get the blanket around his shoulders. He held the blanket in place at his neck and padded quietly but swiftly – barefoot – from his room and down the blue-black Atlantis corridors. The rec room wasn't that far, so no late night patrols to encounter. Once in the rec room, he sifted through the rack of movies until he found the copy of Animaniacs he'd bought the last time he was on earth. Cartoons usually helped him relax, the complete lack of reality giving him respite from reality. He set the movie up and plopped himself onto the large couch brought in by the Daedalus courtesy of those tired of trying to squeeze groups into the smaller couch that had once occupied this spot.

The cartoons began with the intro song John had memorized and liked to hum just to bug McKay. Cold soaked into John's bare feet to creep up into his legs. He tried sitting Indian style so the blanket could cover all of him, but there were still drafts. So he relented irritably, and pulled his knees up to his chest, hugging them with one arm to keep the blanket closed. Drafts still worked their way through unseen chinks, with nothing John could do about them. They didn't make him shiver, just shudder periodically. His back was also starting to itch again. John rested his chin on his knees, and sighed in defeat.

John's dry eyes wandered around the empty rec room. The bright colors of the cartoon didn't do much against the bruise-like shadows around him and the inky-darkness hovering beyond the threshold of the room. He saw shapes within the darkness that were making him nervous.

" Ford?" He said the name as a joke, and instead felt a stab of regret when no hallucination manifested or distant voice responded. John suddenly felt absolutely, indescribably alone. Not just on that couch or in that room, but as though the entire city had suddenly emptied of life except for him.

_Not true, not true, not true._ He was a hair's breadth away from bolting off the couch in search of someone, anyone, to prove himself wrong and stop the pathetic reactions of self-pity. Except giving into his fear would be just as pathetic, and probably piss off whoever he woke up.

_Live with it, Sheppard, just live with it._ None of it was true. He wasn't alone and the city wasn't empty. He was being ridiculous, so wrapped the blanket tighter and tried to focus his wandering mind on the cartoon. The Goodfeathers his favorite.

John shuddered. He was so tired...

SGA

Teyla moved with practiced silence down the corridors from the mess hall making her way back to her quarters, with a cup of Frun root tea warming the palms of her hands. She had dreamed again, of Sheppard's face mutilated by bruises and stitches, and his trapped voice trying to scream. She normally had the tea before bed since it helped against the dreams, but she had forgotten after sparring with Ronon that left her weary to the point that she had barely remembered to bathe.

She had also forgotten to offer some to Colonel Sheppard. She had overheard Beckett speaking to Dr. Weir about John's sleeping troubles. She had also not seen the Colonel since delivering him his lunch, and he had seemed to be asleep then. She hadn't seen much of him since he'd been released to his quarters.

She felt like she was avoiding him, though she knew she wasn't. Sheppard needed rest, and she was just trying not to disturb him from that rest.

Teyla slowed when she saw the flickering lights spilling from the door of the recreational room. Natural curiosity steered her toward the room and the chattering voices that became clearer the closer she got. She saw the movie before she saw who was watching it. One of those 'animated' films Sheppard had called 'cartoons', this one about three bird creatures.

Teyla stayed within the shadows of the hall as she looked within the room to see Colonel Sheppard huddled beneath a blanket staring at the cartoon with wide, bloodshot eyes, barely blinking as though closing his eyes meant they would never open again. The pale light of the cartoon cast a gray pallor on his face, deepening the shadows of his eyes, darkening them like the sockets of a skull, the more vivid suture marks around his lips giving his mouth the appearance of the teeth of a skull. Teyla's stomach twisted and she almost looked away.

Even wrapped tight in a blanket, John was shaking. Teyla couldn't help to think it – try as she might not to – but John was looking small, and lost, as though he wasn't supposed to be where he was yet had no where else to go. Teyla wanted to go to him, offer him the tea, and was about to, but watching him shivering under the blanket was making her body cold and her heart clench out of sorrow in what she couldn't stop herself from seeing as more suffering.

_Why is he alone? He should not be alone._

Teyla pulled away from the sight and hurried down the hall to her room. On the way she passed Rodney's quarters, stopped, backed up and knocked.

" Dr. McKay?"

She waited a few moments, then palmed open the door to see Rodney sitting at his desk with his head down on his folded arms before his laptop. Smiling, Teyla entered the rest of the way and set her hand gently on the physicist's shoulder. Rodney snorted and started awake, quickly wiping the drool from the side of his face.

" Huh? Teyla?" He squinted up at her. " What...?"

" Dr. McKay. I am sorry to disturb you, but I need your assistance."

Rodney rubbed the side of his face with one hand. " Help? Uh... Yeah, sure. What with?"

" Just to help me carry some things. It should not take long."

Rodney nodded while yawning. He stood, stretched until he back popped, and followed Teyla from the room out into the hall. They were heading to her room when she passed Ronon's quarters. Once again she stopped and knocked.

" Ronon?"

Teyla started in alarm when the door rushed immediately open with the Satedan on the other side, still fully dressed in his sleeveless shirt and leather pants.

" Yeah?" he drawled.

Teyla smiled. " If you are not busy, I could use your help."

Ronon shrugged. " Sure. I'm not busy."

Then they were off again, and finally reached Teyla's quarters. She set down her tea on her bedside table, and gathered the woven blankets she kept in a basket for when the days grew colder. She had Rodney carry the blankets, and had Ronon carry her pillow, and his when they passed his room, Rodney's when they passed his, then stopped at Sheppard's quarters for his pillow. All the while, Teyla continued carrying the now luke-warm tea. In the long run, the temperature of the tea didn't matter, just it's purpose.

SGA

It was getting harder for John to keep his eyes open. Every blink made them hurt, and all he wanted to do was close them and drop onto his side, although the impact to his healing ribs would hurt like hell if he did. John's attempt at focus had been futile. The last he recalled, he'd been watching The Goodfeathers, now it was Pinky and the Brain, which he knew to be after Rita and Runt on this particular video.

An unexpected increase of weight around his shoulders made him start to almost go flying off the couch. Two hands planted themselves firmly but gently on his shoulders, and he instinctively tried to pull away.

" Colonel Sheppard!" One hand moved away to be planted on his face and pull his head to the side. His eyes met the worried brown eyes of Teyla, and the fight washed from him, leaving him shaking and panting.

" Teyla?"

The worry shifted into apology in Teyla's gaze. " I am sorry, John, I did not mean to startle you." She adjusted the colorful blanket around John over his bland blanket.

" You looked cold," she said.

" And like hell."

John pulled his eyes away from Teyla to look up at McKay holding a pile of Athosian woven blankets in his arms. " Food, sleep, ever heard of them? Known to do wonders for a guy's complexion."

John curled one corner of his mouth in a small, brief smile. He knew McKay didn't mean anything by it. He was just talking for the sake of it, testing the situation to see if the mood could be lightened at all. And it could, just a fraction.

" I'm trying, McKay," John replied. Rodney didn't respond, just nod slightly. He knew John was.

John wavered, almost dropping to his side he was so tired.

" Perhaps you should lie down," Teyla said. She reached out to the small table beside the couch and brought forward a small cup full of a pungent smelling liquid. " But drink this first. It will help you to relax." She took John's hand to put the cup in it, stating he had no choice but to drink. John did, taking a tentative sip. The smell wasn't all that great, but the spicy taste was tolerable.

Rodney and Ronon settled themselves on the floor against the couch with their pillows cushioning their backs. Teyla prodded John to finish all the tea, and when he did, prodded him until he was laying down with his head on his pillow and his pillow in Teyla's lap.

" I'll fall asleep," John protested nervously.

Teyla adjusted the two blankets already covering him, then covered him with a third. " Then I will wake you if you begin to dream." She draped her arm over him as if to hold him in place. John stared at the backs of Ronon's and Rodney's heads. He realized then that it felt like forever since he'd talked to his team.

" Everyone all right?" he mumbled. Rodney shot a petulant look over his shoulder.

" Of course we're all right. Why wouldn't we be?"

John shrugged. " Been a bad couple of weeks."

" We are well," Teyla said.

" Speak for yourself," Rodney grouched. " I fell asleep on my desk again and now I've got a crick in my neck."

" Stop sleeping on your desk," Ronon countered.

" Gee, really Conan? I haven't thought of that. Sleep comes when it comes for me. I have absolutely no control over it."

" Then stop working at night."

" Why? That's the only time I can get anything done what with all the crap that goes on during the day..."

John grinned wearily, and snaked out a shaky hand to pat Rodney on the head. " There, there Rodney..."

Rodney shoved his hand away. " Ha, ha, flyboy. Keep your sardonic pity to yourself. We need snacks, I think I'll go grab some snacks."

" Get some of that crunchy stuff," Ronon said and Rodney struggled to stand.

" Caramel popcorn or trail mix?"

" The first stuff."

Rodney moved at a small jog to the door. John lifted his head to see him.

" Coming back, right?" he asked. He didn't know why. It was a stupid question John had asked without thinking. Rodney stopped just outside the door and turned. He looked prepped with an irate response, then seemed to rethink it, and instead smiled reassuringly.

" Always," he said, and left.

John set his head back on the pillow. His fight to keep his eyes open was a losing one. He blinked a few times in a feeble attempt, then simply gave in and let them remain closed. A shudder of uneasy anticipation ran through him, sending a chill down his spine and through his skin, until he felt the shift of Teyla's arm, and felt her hand resting on his head.

A feeling of relief, like spreading sunlight warming him from the inside out, encompassed him so strongly he wanted to weep, and didn't know why. But it faltered at the prospect of dreaming, making him shiver with growing dread. The darkness, cold, and pain would come through the dreams that would shove him awake into more darkness, lingering like mocking laughter in the background, and wrapping his skin in arctic air. Focusing on the weight of Teyla's hand against his skull altered his perceptions to make the ghostly pain falter. But the moment when the weight left, the pain would rush him. John shuddered with a racing heart.

" Please don't go," he begged, and didn't care how pathetic it sounded.

" We are not going anywhere," he heard Teyla say.

" Not without you," said Ronon.

" We're out of caramel popcorn but I found some regular popcorn and sodas," said Rodney.

That was good enough for John, all of it, popcorn included. The relief surged back through him, rolling like a sun-heated wave.

" Save some for me," he muttered, then drifted away to the theme song of Animaniacs.

SGA

Carson stood just inside the doorway to the rec room with his hands in the pockets of his lab coat, his stethoscope around his neck, a small smile on his face, and his head shaking. He knew that eventually he would have to disturb the little scene he was a quiet witness to, but saw no reason to not allow it to drag on for as long as possible.

Sheppard's team were sitting against the couch – all three – with cases of cartoon DVDs scattered at their feet and a bugs bunny cartoon playing; like kids during an early Saturday morning. Behind them was stretched Colonel Sheppard buried up to his jaw in a mound of blankets. The only other part of him visible beside his pale face and dark hair was his pale hand hanging over the side of the couch clasped in both of Teyla's hands, her slender fingers massaging his thin ones whenever he stirred, settling him back into sleep. Ronon was positioned with one leg up, the other straightened, leaning back so his neck was resting on the cushions and the back of his head was touching John against his ribcage. Rodney had his arms on the couch, one elbow touching where John's leg would be, the other either draped over his foot or his ankle, Carson couldn't tell because of the blankets. Rodney kept his arms where they were even when he gestured as he explained the cartoon they were watching to Ronon and Teyla.

"... I would think it obvious that Elmer Fudd is no where near as scary as a wraith... or even scary as an angry kitten for that matter. But, yeah, I'll admit that Bugs and Sheppard do have a _few_ similar qualities."

Ronon popped a handful of recently made popcorn into his mouth and spoke as he chewed. " Sort of like you and that coyote guy."

McKay's eyes narrowed darkly. " I thought I told you we weren't going there."

Sheppard stirred with a quiet moan, until Teyla rubbed the back of his hand and his fingers between hers, then he immediately quieted.

The only time Carson had seen John's face that slack in sleep for the past couple of weeks was when he'd been sedated. It was amazing what John's team could accomplish when they worked together – making discoveries, pulling off rescues, saving lives, fighting the bad guys, or simply finding a way for one of their own to get the rest he so desperately needed.

Carson moved quietly forward and lightly placed the back of his hand to John's forehead. Sheppard's skin was warm. Not fever warm, just warm compared to the ice it had been the past couple of days. John exhaled a quiet breath and burrowed deeper into the blankets, practically melting further into the couch. The Highland doctor smiled.

He heard Rodney mutter, " Lose the dreadlocks and you could be the twin of a certain Tasmanian Devil with anger management issues."

Very amazing.

The End

A/N: And another story bites the dust. Sorry to those hoping for a little revenge against the ones who had tortured John. Not all revenges can be meted out, and I didn't intend this story to be anything long. Whump and H/C, that was it. Thanks be to all who have reviewed. Feedback is always appreciated, as it let's me know that I am doing something right... Though Sheppard would say I'm not exactly doing right my him. Oh well. Here's a cool weapon, Shep, go shoot some wraith with it.

And for those who inquired. The link to my original fic is written in my bio. It's not my homepage link (when I said homepage I was referring to my bio, I just keep calling it a homepage for some reason). The link isn't really linked so I apologize for that. I have no idea how to get it to link and got tired of trying.


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